


Love and Other Cliches

by xaritomene, xrysomou



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Gender Issues, Harlequin, M/M, Magic, Sexual Content, kinda genderbending but also not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaritomene/pseuds/xaritomene, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob Bryar is the best witch in the whole damn scene, even if he does say so himself. Which is just as well, because he's got responsibilities, most of which involve his charge, Gerard. Mainly, Bob's supposed to keep Gerard from falling down a well, or losing his sketchpad - little things, but Bob is a conscientious guardian. But when it becomes obvious that Gerard and Frank are hopelessly, silently in love with each other, Bob suddenly has bigger things to worry about. Nothing he's tried has ended in the declarations of love he'd been aiming for (not the fireworks, not the sunsets, not even the four hours they'd spent in locked in a closet). In a last, ditch attempt, he resorts to real spellwork, the epic, Cinderella kind, and now Frank and Gerard are stuck in a romance novel... with only one way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Other Cliches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bandombigbang 2011. See end notes for the artwork and mix which accompany the fic! (Go have a look at those even if you don't read the fic, they're both fantastic.)

The first thing you need to know is that Bob Bryar is a witch. The second thing you need to know is that spells – Bob’s spells, well-worked spells, the kind that take time and patience and skill, _properly_ worked spells – well, they have lives of their own.

Thirdly, and somewhat less importantly, Gerard Way is (embarrassingly) addicted to Harlequin romances. He likes to think it’s a secret.

Fourthly, and most importantly of all, Frank and Gerard are hopelessly, sickeningly in love with each other. They just don’t know it yet.

Bob’s about to change that. 

Somehow.

He’s working on it.

**

“Gerard...” Frank’s voice was a fraction higher than normal, eyes bugging just a little. “Dude, I don’t want to harsh your vibe, or anything-”

“I’m sorry, you don’t want to ‘harsh’ my what?” Gerard stared back at him, like _Frank_ was the one wearing indecently sheer harem pants and a laundry’s worth of diaphanous veils.

Frank averted his eyes in an unusual display of modesty. (Naked Gerard was one thing; exotic-dancer Gerard was entirely another. Frank did his best to focus his attention elsewhere, staring instead at the lavish silk pavilion, set up seemingly at random in the middle of a vast desert. It was red and stripy and Frank thought it was awesome – he just wished he knew what it was doing there.) For the moment, though, he had other problems: “I don’t want to – step on your toes, or whatever. Y’know, your whole. Thing.”

“My ‘vibe’ is not ‘harshed’,” Gerard assured him, waving his hands earnestly, tiny bells jingling gently at his wrists and ankles. It was kind of reassuring that the addition of veils and harem pants and gold anklets – and tiny jingling bells – changed Gerard not one whit, “and my toes are not stepped on. What were you going to say?”

**

One final point of interest: Bob is Gerard’s guardian... witch. Angel. Thing.

Everyone has a guardian, of some description. Gerard’s is Bob. Which is convenient because they’re in the same band now, which makes clearing up his messes a lot easier, and also because Bob rocks the awesome hulking bodyguard look, just as much as he rocks the ‘I have sparkly spell-stars around my hands, I hope that’s not a problem for anyone’ look. (Ryan Ross probably rocked that look a little harder than Bob, but whatever. Bob was far more awesome at hulking than Ross was. He’d seen Ross try. It was funny.)

So when Bob realised that his charge was ridiculously in love with his bandmate, he really pulled out all the stops. He sent them on dates (not, of course, that they realised they were dates) – he conjured up the most miraculous of sunsets for them – and finally, driven to extremes, he even locked them in a closet for _four hours_. He had hoped that they would at least do the decent thing and have sex against the door. (They hadn’t, Bob knew – he’d been listening. It was possible that desperation had driven Bob creepy.) When he’d finally realised that the plan was a failure and they had to be let out at some point, the pair of them had been discussing Dungeons and Dragons.

Unless they caught a clue soon, Bob decided grimly, Dungeons and Dragons would be in their near future. Real ones.

**

“I was just thinking that – you know, given your, um, previous,” Frank groped futilely for a word, “shyness! You know, your, um, _physical_ shyness , or, um, well, your – aversion to skin-”

“Frank,” Gerard’s voice was infinitely patient but he looked confused, “use your words. What are you trying to say?”

Frank gave up the tactful approach. “Your dick is going to get _sunburnt_!”

Gerard went from mere confusion to outright fear. “Why would my dick get sunburnt?!”

Frank kept his eyes firmly on Gerard’s face. “I don’t know, Gee, but if I had to guess,” he said carefully, “I’d say your cheesecloth pants are part of the problem.”

Gerard stared at him for a moment longer, then glanced down at himself. “Woah, OK. This is new.” He squinted up at the sun and then sent Frank a worried look. “Maybe we should go inside?” He was already turning towards the tent.

“Sure, Dracula. Sure,” Frank agreed, trailing after him. The tent was lavish to the point of gaudiness. Huge, brightly-coloured cushions were heaped in one corner, the floor was thickly layered with soft, purple rugs and the entire thing smelt strongly of cheap incense. Frank raised an eyebrow – Gerard had other things occupying his mind. 

“Dude, why’m I dressed like this?” He flumped down on the cushions, sprawled inelegantly, and Frank had to remind himself urgently that he was _not_ going to spend this conversation staring at Gerard’s crotch. “I mean – d’you think this is, like, the porno version of turning up to school naked?” Gerard asked finally, looking remarkably reflective for one who was reclining on cushions and leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Maybe _your_ version of turning up to school naked,” Frank agreed warily. “I think most people’s involve less veils. More to the point, wouldn’t I be dreaming about _me_ turning up to school naked?”

“Maybe you’re projecting,” Gerard said wisely.

Frank paused. “I... don’t think so. Well, I guess I might, but I have a limited amount of dreaming time and I like to use it wisely.”

Gerard made what he clearly thought was a suggestive leer. “What’s wisely used dreaming time, then, huh?” 

Frank stared at him. “I’m not answering that,” he said evasively. “They’re my dreams, OK?”

Gerard conceded the point and moved on. “OK. But _this_ is _my_ dream.”

Frank stared at him. “Gee, you’re in veils and harem pants. This is clearly _my_ dream.”

**

When Bob realised that Gerard and Frank couldn’t catch a clue with both hands and a net, he had retired to his bunk and consulted his grimmerie. (His grimmerie looked an awful lot like an airport paperback, covered in pencil scribbles. His grimmerie was awesome.) His grimmerie coincidentally held the secrets of the universe. Bob was hoping it would also help pretty, idiot boys to get with the fucking programme.

And that was how Frank and Gerard found themselves in the plot of one of Gerard’s (many, many) romance novels.

**

“You often dream about me in veils and harem pants?” Gerard asked interestedly. Frank went a little pink.

“No?” he tried. The worst thing was, it was true: “Normally, there are less clothes involved.” After all, this was a dream – in for a penny, in for a pound.

Gerard grinned. “And are you normally dressed as an extra from Aladdin in these mental excursions of yours?” Frank glanced down at his curly-toed slippers and scowled, but Gerard wasn’t done. “Do we frolic through the streets of Agrabah, carpet and monkey in tow?”

“Well... there’s no monkey?” Frank offered. “The city and the carpet are generally kind of incidental, I don’t really pay much attention to them.”

“But we are frolicking in your dreams, then?” Gerard asked.

Frank leered ridiculously. “If that’s what all the cool kids are calling it these days?” Gerard crossed his arms and looked mulishly confused. “OK, never mind. Look, I really like talking to you – it’s one of the many reasons why I... well, anyway,” he broke off and started again. “I really like talking to you, but I’m probably about to wake up soon, so if we could...?”

“If we could – what?”

“Hurry things along,” Frank said tactfully.

**

It should be said at this point that the spell has a rather literal interpretation of ‘romance’. Bob had pointed it at Gerard and his romance fetish, it had devoured the books it had found and it _knew_ romance. Nothing could convince it otherwise. Once a spell got to grips with an idea, the idea remained in its clutches until something else forcibly - _forcibly_ \- dislodged it.

Oh, it _knew_ romance.

**

“Hurry things along – where?” Gerard asked suspiciously.

Frank eyed him. “This is weird. Dream-you is normally way more with the prog- oh, _shit_.” He pinched himself viciously on the back of his hand and yelped. “Ow, _mother_ fuck!”

Gerard gave him a worried look. “What?”

“I don’t think this is a dream,” Frank said carefully.

“Of course it’s not a dream for you,” Gerard said encouragingly, “you’re a character in _my_ dream. Like a kind of projection of all my hopes and- and fears for you and for us-”

Knowing Gerard could go on for hours if given the chance to really get going, Frank staged a quick interruption. “Don’t patronise me,” he said and pinched Gerard savagely on the arm.

“Ow!” Gerard recoiled, looking betrayed.

“See?” Frank said, unashamedly smug.

“But- if this... isn’t a dream... and it’s not some kind of psychotic hallucination, then – this is, this is- Frankie, this is _bad_!” 

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Frank rolled his eyes, turban slipping slowly but surely down his forehead, and when he pushed it back up, it began to unravel at the back. “I thought it was _wonderful_ to be stuck in the middle of a _desert_ , with no food, no water, no cell phone, no way _whatsoever_ of contacting people-”

“Frank-”

“- or leaving, with no people around for _hours_ and _hours_ and _hours_ -”

“Except for those guys, Frank. The ones over there.” Gerard pointed at the large group of people heading towards them in a cloud of sand, visible through the tent-flaps, but far too close to be a mirage. 

As the group got closer, they could see it was led by a man in flowing white robes edged with purple and frankly ridiculous shoes. Frank looked down at his own and felt a touch of entirely inappropriate envy.  
Gerard was already half-way out of the tent, and was clearly about to hail them before the group slowed and stopped as one – which was just as well, because Frank was already wondering whether offering Gerard’s favours would get them to give the two of them a lift back to civilization. Wherever that might be. 

The leader flung himself off his horse and genuflected before the tent. “Approaching the tent of his most eminent highness, Sheikh Franka al’Iero of Agrabah and the Lady Barbara McAllister, his most serene First Consort!”

Frank glanced futilely around. “Are we squatting in some guy’s tent?” he asked, checking under a particularly large cushion, presumably for the body.

Gerard had his arms crossed. “The guy is called _Franka_ al’ _Iero_. I don’t know about you, but that sounds quite familiar to me.” Frank glanced at him distractedly. “Frank, it’s _you_.”

“No, it’s not,” Frank said instantly. “I’m not a fucking sheikh.”

“And when we went to sleep last night, we weren’t in a fucking desert, but clearly, circumstances change!” Gerard said, arms windmilling wildly.

“But I can’t be this – Sheikh Franka guy! And if I am, I-”

Gerard interrupted him. “And then there’s this poor Barbara chick wandering round, god only knows where she got to-”

“Yeah,” Frank said deliberately, staring pointedly at Gerard. “I wonder who she could be?” Gerard gave him yet another confused look. “OK, Gee, follow the logic. If I’m Sheikh Franka-”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am,” Frank agreed patiently. “And Sheikh Franka has a consort called Barbara, and there’s only one person in the tent with me right now, who just happens to be wearing harem pants and _veils_ , that would make you...?”

“Most radiant Lady Barbara!” Their leader flung himself forward in front of Gerard’s bejewelled slippers. Gerard edged backwards and looked uncomfortable. “We will escort the first Consort, the Jewel of Agrabah, to her litter!”

Gerard finally caught up. “I’m called Barbara!?” he squawked, and looked round for someone to blame.

“Awesome, you’re my consort,” Frank beamed, ignoring Gerard as well as his courtiers, who were all crouched nearby in varying degrees of discomfort – except for the ones who had begun to gather around Gerard, ushering him out the tent to what apparently was his litter.

“Frank? Where are they taking me?”

“Your litter, Barbara.”

“I’m not called Barbara!”

[ _’Bad news!’ the spell informed Bob. ‘He’s taken against the name!’ ‘It was that or Geraldine,’ Bob told it sourly within the privacy of his own head, and went back to his book._ ] 

“Fine, Jewel of Agrabah.”

“That’s not even a real place! And that,” he snapped, warming to his theme and pointing dramatically at the group of classically-dressed ‘Arabians’, “is just so clichéd and ill-informed! This whole thing is just a fucking nightmare!”

“We’ve pretty much established that it’s not,” Frank said helpfully.

“Shut up,” Gerard snapped as he was ceremoniously and very insistently stuffed into his litter. He sulked violently, until Frank was shown the horse he was to ride. It was a massive stallion, totally unsuited to someone of Frank’s height and equestrian ability. Frank barely came up to its shoulder. Once on the beast, Frank perched awkwardly and, ignoring the reins entirely, clung to pommel of the saddle for grim death. Gerard, amused out of his sulk and hidden by the litter’s shimmery curtains, cackled the entire way back.

**

When they arrived in the tiny, opulent city of Agrabah – it was actually called _Agrabah_ , what the _shit_ \- Gerard’s bejewelled feet barely touched the ground before he was almost-literally carried off by a small army of handmaidens. One terrified glance back at Frank revealed that he had ushered off just as quickly in the other direction. No help there, then.

“Where are we going?” he asked the woman nearest his head.

“To your chambers, my lady, where we will bathe you in yak’s milk-”

“Oh, of course,” Gerard agreed.

“-and prepare you for dinner.”

Gerard paused. “Am I the main course?!”

“Yak’s milk is beneficial for the skin, my lady,” the woman said, gently reproving.

“All the better to eat me with,” he giggled, then stopped as he was met with thirteen pairs of blank, uncomprehending eyes. It was possible he was a little hysterical. “...never mind. So, after you marinade me...?”

The handmaiden gave him a pained, forgiving smile. “We will dress you for the banquet, my lady,” she said, as if to a small child.

Gerard thought of the fly in the ointment which was his dick. “Well, this should be a fun surprise for all concerned,” he muttered, and allowed himself to be borne away.

**

Skin marinaded and veils firmly in place – without so much as a peep from the handmaidens when he was disrobed and shoved into the bath – Gerard finally managed to forcibly eject the ladies from his chambers for a little privacy. Once by himself, he flopped down on yet more cushions and allowed himself a long moment to take everything in.

“First consort gets a pretty sweet deal,” he murmured, taking in the gilded ceiling and the carved cedar furnishings. The only thing which seemed out of place was the bright blue paperback on the nightstand; Gerard eyed it, recognising Harlequin’s ‘Modern Romances’ line with the ease of long exposure. Curiosity piqued, he levered himself out of the cushions with some difficulty and picked it up. It read: ‘Romancing the Desert: Bride of the Sheikh!’, and the sheikh in question glared up at him from the front cover. Clutched in his arms was the heroine – an underdressed, red-headed harpy with a definite squint. Gerard squinted at the cover himself with an artist’s eye; that camel had three humps.

He looked around – there was no one there, and nothing else to do. He settled himself back into the cushions, cracked open the book and began to read.

Ten minutes later, he sat bolt upright and said, loudly, to the empty room, “Wait, _what_?!” 

A handmaiden appeared as if by magic. “My lady called?” 

“Not for you,” Gerard snapped, then, feeling guilty, added, “um, sorry. Can you get me Fra- the Sheikh?” 

The young woman looked scandalised. “The sheikh does not come to the First Consort. The First Consort goes to the-”

“Then could you please get me to the Sheikh?” Gerard asked with infinite patience.

“But it is dinnertime, my lady – and we must dress you!”

“You just dressed me for dinner, like, half an hour ago!” Gerard pointed out, but was met with yet more blank incomprehension – and as a new load of handmaids swarmed into the room, he decided discretion was the better part of valour. “You know what? Knock yourselves out.”

**

“So, my consort,” Frank said, who clearly found this entire thing far funnier than it deserved, “how did you spend your afternoon?”

Gerard, who had once more been all-but borne in on the backs of his worker ants, scowled at him. _Frank_ got to walk places. “I’ve spent the last three hours being Barbie for a bunch of grown women. Seriously, what the hell?”

“I don’t even know, Gee,” Frank shrugged. “I’m still not convinced that this isn’t just a really vivid fever dream.”

Gerard sighed. “Well, whatever it is, we have bigger problems right now.”

Frank looked wary. “How big?”

“Oh, tiny,” Gerard assured him, a bubble of hysteria appearing in his voice. “I’m pretty sure we’re stuck in a romance novel.”

Frank gave him a suspicious look. “And you came to this conclusion... how?”

“I read it,” Gerard said, brandishing the book, voice getting higher and higher with each word. “It’s all in here. You, the tall, striking, muscle-bound Sheikh Franka al’Iero,” he paused for a second to appreciate the comparison, which did Frank no favours, “and I am the sweet yet fiery tempered,” he winced, “Barbara.” 

Frank had taken the book from him and was studying the front cover. “The ginger chick?”

Gerard tugged his fingers through his very black hair. “Yep,” he said grimly. “That’s me. And that’s you. Only a bit taller than usual.”

Frank glanced down at the lumbering hulk which was apparently his fictional alter-ego. “He looks as though he’s, like, made of protein shake,” he muttered, and turned the book over to read the blurb. “ _‘Sheikh Franka al’Iero mastered the wild lands of his sovereignty out of necessity, but the beautiful Barbara he’ll tame ___ **for fun**.’”

“This is your life, Frank,” Gerard said with deceptive calm. 

Frank stared at him, looking far too composed for Gerard’s liking. “But, dude, it can’t be. Look –“ he held up the book, “I look _nothing_ like this guy.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a red-headed woman, but everyone keeps calling me Barbara,” snapped Gerard.

“And I’m not a sheikh!” 

“ _Barbara_ ,” Gerard repeated for emphasis. He was gratified to see Frank looking a little worried.

“And I don’t have any _wild lands of my sovereignty_! I have a tiny house in Newark! I cannot be this guy!” Frank took a very deep breath. “Ok. This is obviously just a pot dream that got insanely out of hand and –“

“Frank, dude, I thought we’d already established that this _isn’t_ a dream,” Gerard interrupted. “And I’ve tried, ok? I’ve tried almost everything I could think of. I’ve hit myself, poured cold water over my head – I even said _Finite Incantatem_ , and nothing happened. This is real.”

Frank looked as though he was grasping for the last few shreds of his sanity. “Maybe it’s a dream within a dream! Like, maybe we’re just too deep to –“

“I’m confiscating your copy of _Inception_ when we get home,” Gerard told him and then paused as a handmaid appeared at his elbow.

“If the Most Serene First Consort would come with me, we will seat her for dinner,” the woman said to Gerard before bowing as low to Frank as her body would permit.

“Peachy,” Gerard muttered and allowed himself to be steered away, turning back to hiss, “We’ll talk about this later!” 

**

As luck - or the seating arrangement - would have it, they were sitting together, at the top of a table that stretched the length of the dining hall. This particular feast, Frank had been informed multiple times, was to be held in his honour. Frank would probably have been more grateful had he not been surrounded by dignitaries or been presented with an entire plateful of chickpeas. This would have suited him down to the ground had it not been _just_ chickpeas. Gerard had rice.

He’d thought royalty would eat better, but apparently not.

_[The spell had difficulties with the food. It was one detail habitually missed in the books, and so it hadn’t really bothered. It wasn’t like Barbara would be eating anyway; the heroines never did. Instead, it had relied on what vague knowledge Bob had of Middle Eastern food and the scant information given in the books. Rice and chickpeas it was, then]/_

The only really interesting part of the proceedings was when the tall evil stereotype stepped forwards, face pulled into the most epic sneer of disapproval. Gerard, due to his extensive knowledge of romance novel lore, knew just what was coming and continued to pick disinterestedly at his rice, even as Frank sat up straighter next to him and frowned.

“Nobles of Agrabah!” The man began, and even his _voice_ was set to Evil Villain Version 2.0. “We have been dishonoured by the presence of this slut,” he pointed a dramatic finger at the high table, “in our court!”

“Who?” Frank said absently.

“Dude. Me. He’s talking about _me_.”

“What?” Frank asked, but there was no time to respond – the stereotype had really got into his stride.

“She has besmirched the ancient house of Al’Iero with her feminine wiles,” he continued, “ensnaring our glorious leader with her whorish tricks! See how she smiles, my lords!”

Gerard paused. “I’m – not smiling. And, hey, Frank, I’m a _besmircher_.”

“You’ve got whorish tricks, too,” Frank agreed. 

“I’m multi-faceted,” Gerard said complacently, taking a bite of rice.

“See how she dismisses our concerns!” He turned from the assembled company to Gerard. “You mock us, whore!” He shouted, eyes bulging. “You sit there, weakening this great nation-” 

“Just by sitting here?”

“Stealing our Sheikh from his bed-”

“What?” Frank looked up again.

“-weakening the line of Kings with your impure blood! You have the soul of a courtesan!” This was clearly the most dramatic insult in his repertoire, the one to which his entire speech had been building up; Gerard tapped his fingers on the table. “I demand this creature be expelled from our ancient city! Cast her out, my lord!”

All heads turned to look at Frank, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unaccustomed to scrutiny falling entirely upon him. He honestly couldn’t think of anything which summed up his feelings better than “Er, no. I, um, don’t think I will.”

“Then I must leave your court, my lord,” Gerard’s adversary announced, pulling himself up to his full height. “I refuse to associate with this group of whoresons and vagabonds!”

“Well, if that’s how you really feel,” Frank said sweetly.

Affronted, the man’s eye twitched slightly before he spat on the floor and stalked out.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out,” Gerard said, ignoring the shocked looks and pouring himself more water. “What? The guy was a dick!”

“I don’t think you’re helping matters, Barbara,” Frank told him, patting his hand.

**

An hour after dinner, Frank knocked on the door of Gerard’s indecently sumptuous chambers. A woman who was decidedly not Gerard opened the door.

“Hi!” said Frank cheerily. “Barbara around?”

The woman squeaked and flung herself into a bow before gesturing him into the room and making herself scarce. Left to his own devices, Frank wandered inside. The room was lit with only a few candles. Frank squinted through the gloom.

“Gee?” he called when he saw nobody.

“Over here.”

Gerard was reading the book, sat on a pile of cushions so massive it all but dwarfed him and dressed in yet another outfit – it was still harem pants and still covered in sequins, but thankfully a little less revealing than all the others had been. Frank allowed himself to stare for a moment, shrugged it off and tugged one of the cushions out of the pile to perch on.

“Hey, Barbara,” he said, grinning as Gerard gave him a dirty look. He was still clinging to the idea that the whole thing was a dream, and that, with one lurch of the tourbus, he might wake up. Seeing that Gerard was absorbed in Romancing the Desert, Frank clambered up the cushions to peer over his shoulder.

“What’s up?” he demanded, grabbing the book and leafing through it. “Any new ideas on how we get out of here?”

Gerard sighed. “Nope, none. I think it’s meant to mean something, but I’ve no idea what. I mean, I get that we’re stuck in it, but I’ve got no fucking clue where we go from here.”

Frank frowned at the book. “So you really think…?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in a romance novel.”

“Yeah.”

There was a momentary silence. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

Frank seemed to collect himself. “Okay. Right. So what happens in the book? That might help. I dunno. Somehow.”

Gerard frowned into the middle distance. “But it’s like every other romance novel _ever_.” Frank made himself comfortable on the cushions and Gerard sighed. “Okay. Frank Al’Iero is the sheikh of the great land of Agrabah –“

“ _Agrabah_?”

“Barbara is… like, his secretary, something. She’s damaged by her tragic past –“

“Oh, of course,” Frank agreed cordially. Gerard continued, ignoring him.

“And Franka must prove his worth to be her king – and her lover,” he added, with instinctive dramatic flair. Frank grinned. “And Barbara-”

“Your name is Barbara.” Frank still hadn’t got over it. 

“ – must learn to trust again,” Gerard said over him, loudly. “That’s it. Dunno how it’s going to help at all.”

“Ok, well, let’s look at this logically,” Frank said and Gerard glared at him. “it’s a romance novel.”

“No, you think?” Gerard flung the book at him, and Frank caught it, opening it randomly at a page.

“ _The Sheikh looked deep into his Barbara’s eyes_ \- oh, God - _and said ‘kiss me, Barbara. I know you’re longing for me!’ She sighed, relaxing against his muscled chest_ ,” Gerard sniggered meanly, “ _and whispered, ‘Oh Franka, I’ve longed for you for so long!’_ ”

“That doesn’t scan,” Gerard muttered rebelliously.

“Hey, you’re the connoisseur here. Take it up with,” he checked the cover, “Madeleine Moran.” 

“Oh, I will,” Gerard promised darkly. “If I ever meet her, I will punch her _in the face_.”

Seeing as it was highly unlikely, Frank decided to move on. “Mm, that’ll be great publicity for the band. Anyway, we’re in a book, right?”

“Right,” agreed Gerard dubiously. 

“And so far, everything that’s happened in the book has happened to us?”

“If you mean being stranded in the desert and yelled at by misogynists, yeah.”

“So,” Frank appeared to be grappling with a concept. “The book has to finish.”

Gerard stared at him. “That’s what normally happens when the paper stops, yeah. I don’t see what that –“

“So if we just follow the book, eventually we’ll end up at the end, right? Like, the book will be finished!”

“And if the book’s finished,” Gerard said slowly, “then –“

“Then we might get back home, or wake up, or whatever,” Frank said, waving his arms for emphasis. “Exactly. We follow the book, make sure we do everything it tells us to, and eventually we’ll get out. Hopefully in time for that show in Texas,” he added, frowning. “How much time do you reckon we’re losing here?”

Gerard shrugged. “No idea. Frankie, this sounds great and all, following the book, but. You get shot. Like, towards the end. How the fuck are we going to handle that?”

Frank paused and then waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. We’ll sort it out eventually. So now we wait. We’ve got a while; want me to read aloud?”

“ Anything but that,” Gerard said, rootling around in the cushions for something. “Do you have my cigarettes? Weirdly enough, my harem pants didn’t have pockets, and I can’t seem to find any.”

“I don’t suppose the Serene Barbara is meant to be a chain smoker,” Frank agreed. “Sorry, I got nothin’. And now you’ve mentioned it, _I_ want one.” He plumped down next to Gerard on the cushions and absently leant against him. Just as absently, Gerard slung an arm around his shoulders. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “We’re gonna be fine.”

He should have known better than to tempt fate.

**

The afternoon inched by interminably slowly. They were once again separated ; Frank was gently but forcibly ushered out of Gerard’s chambers so that he could listen to the complaints and appeals of Agrabah’s many citizens and so Gerard could be manoeuvred into yet another set of ceremonial but equally diaphanous robes – in preparation for what, Gerard wasn’t able to ascertain. Whatever the occasion, it merited a lot of eyeliner and even more sequins. Frank nearly pulled something laughing when he saw it.

Frank was finally released just as the Sun was setting. He thought he’d got off comparatively lightly, on the whole. A few tedious hours of crops and goats and other things he didn’t entirely understand, and a set of purple robes which bleached him of any colour he’d had to start with, he’d been left to his own devices. Gerard hadn’t had nearly so much luck; the handmaidens followed him everywhere, and any requests he’d made for a cigarette had been met with questioning and sometimes frightened glances. He wasn’t sure what the Most Serene First Consort was supposed to do all day, but it sure as hell wasn’t much. It was almost a relief to find himself arguing with Frank later in the evening.

“If you call me Barbara _one more time_ , Frank, so help me god...”

They were once again in Gerard’s rooms in the women’s wing of the ridiculously over-decorated palace, and Gerard, still in his absurd robes, hands on hips and with a face like thunder, was glaring at Frank from across the room. 

Frank would have paid more attention had it not been for the shimmering of Gerard’s pants in the conveniently placed beam of moonlight coming through the window. “Sorry?”

“I. Am not. Barbara,” Gerard said clearly. “ _I_ am Gerard, and all of this is a an absolute fucking nightmare, only made worse by you calling me _Barbara_ all the goddamn time. Do it again, and I swear to God, I will hurt you.”

“Dude, they’re gonna notice if I don’t call you Barbara-”

“The women who dressed me didn’t notice I had a _dick_ ,” Gerard snapped. “Frankly, they wouldn’t notice if I danced naked around this place singing ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’.”

“They dressed you again?”

“And rubbed me down with rose oil,” Gerard made a face. “It was horrible.”

“Man,” Frank shook his head sympathetically and tried very hard not to think about how well moonlight suited Gerard. Expressing his appreciation would probably not go down well, and warm, schmoopy love-feelings didn’t go well with a wounded ego. “This place.”

Gerard nodded gloomily, but before he could reply they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Your most Eminent Highness?” Frank, staring into space, didn’t answer. The man looked a little nervous.

“Dude, he means you,” Gerard prompted.

“Oh! Yeah?”

“It’s time for you to retire now.”

“Can’t I retire here?” Frank asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Your Highness, you’re in the women’s quarters.”

“So is my paramo- concub- her.” He jerked a thumb at Gerard, whose eyes promised death. “Have I never spent the night before?” His expression changed minutely. “Tell me I’ve spent the night before.”

“Well...” The messenger actually wrung his hands. “Normally the Moon of Serenity-”

“The _what_? No, seriously, _what_?!” 

“-normally, she comes to your quarters.” He looked horrified at his own boldness.

“I see,” Frank plainly did not see at all. “Gee, I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Be there or be-”

“Yes, yes I know.”

**

Deprived of anything else to do (having counted all the cushions and the ceiling tiles, thoroughly explored the women’s wing and being well- acquainted with the contents of the book so far) Gerard spiked the guns of his handmaidens and changed into his nightgown. At least he thought it was a nightgown. It was the sheerest and frankly most indecent garment he had ever seen, and felt a sense of vague smugness when his handmaidens redundantly pitched up to shove him into it.

He did feel the need to flag up one pressing concern, however. “Guys, are we not leaving _anything_ to the imagination?” He said, gesturing at himself. The expressions on his handmaidens’ faces made it clear that that was no longer necessary. “Huh. OK, then. Well, you, er. You – head off. I’m just going to be here. Reposing. And shit.” He gestured with the book. “Reading, y’know. Improving my mind.” If the handmaiden’s expressions were any indication, that wasn’t really necessary either.

When they’d left, he settled himself back on the vast, silk-clad bed and cracked open the book. It made for easy reading, and he’d read nearly a full chapter before the import of what he was reading dawned upon him. “Oh, shi-” he managed, and was already reaching for his dressing gown (!!) when the door burst open. 

**

“Okay, seriously,” he said, twenty minutes later, hands tied behind the back of his chair, “what use is a kidnapping if you’re literally going to take me next door? You’re not very bright, are you?”

“Silence, whore!” The generic villain cried, and then backhanded him across the face.

It wasn’t the worst he’d had, but it still fucking hurt. Deciding not to cry like a little girl, he said, “’at’s ’oin’ ’o bwuise,” checking his teeth with his tongue. 

Confusion reigned for a moment on his kidnapper’s face. “What did you say?”

“I said, that’s going to _bruise_ ,” Gerard snapped, then changed tack suddenly. “Wait, why are you untying me?”

“Now, whore, you will be dropped in the desert, to _die_!” It was said with some relish.

“Can’t wait,” he said dryly. “Though, thinking about it, you know there are more certain ways to get rid of me, right?”

“Be silent-” and then Gerard punched him in the face.

“You,” he said, nursing his hand, “are _the worst_ kidnapper _ever_.”

The scene that Frank walked in on was somewhat different than he had expected. When he burst into Gerard’s room, he was expecting overturned furniture and possibly blood – what he actually found was some rather rumpled bed-clothes and a scuffling noise coming from somewhere.

“Gee?!” he called out, more than a little alarmed “Where are you? Are you OK?”

“I’m in my dressing room!”

“Oh, good,” there was naked relief in Frank’s voice. “Your, um, staff said some dude had dragged you off somewhere!”

“Not very far,” Gerard returned. “He’s a bit shit at the whole kidnapping thing.” 

Frank appeared in the doorway. Gerard was stood over their villain, hand held to his chest, whilst the villain whimpered pathetically, hand over his nose; Frank took all this in at one glance, then grinned up at Gerard. “I fucking _love_ you,” he said fervently.

Gerard smirked, and bowed. 

Then the scene froze.

**

[ _“ **I’ve done it!** ” The spell cried triumphantly. “I did it, Bob, I did it!”_

_“Did what?”_

_“They’re in love!”_

_“They were already in love. That’s kind of the problem.”_

_“Well, they just admitted it! Oh, it was beautiful, Bob, you should have seen it! Things were going so **wonderfully** , and then Gerard punched the villain in the face-”_

_“What?!”_

_“I know, it’s not technically in the books, but-”_

_“Context. Now.” The spell told him. “Dude, Frank would tell you he loved you if you brought him coffee in the morning. And, y’know, Gee doesn’t really punch people all that often – he’s more of the hunger-strike, protest-songs type. So, that’s kind of a big deal.” There was a contemplative pause. “Better try again, dude.”_ ]

**

Back at the palace, the world started to crackle a little, things dissolving around the edges of their vision. Frank grasped for Gerard’s hand. “What’s going on?”

Gerard shrugged. “No clue.” He gripped Frank’s hand tightly as the room started shimmer in and out of focus. Then as quickly as if someone had flicked channels, the scene changed.

**

Gerard found himself with a lapful of hot porridge when his surroundings shifted back into focus, and swore loudly, leaping up and trying to shake it off his – dress? Again? – and out of his lap. He could just feel delicate parts of him starting to blister with the heat. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” someone said sounding equal parts terrified and sympathetic, and Gerard wheeled round.

He peered into the gloom of what appeared to be a hovel. “Who’s there?” he demanded, continuing to scrub at the mess of porridge in his lap. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he recognised the speaker. “Wait, you’re – Brendon, right?”

“Yes. You’re Gerard Way!”

“Yes, I am,” Gerard agreed. “Do you – I mean, do you know why we’re here? Or where ‘here’ is?”

Brendon stared at him, big-eyed. “What?” 

Before Gerard could answer, they were interrupted by a yelp followed by a loud ‘thud’ outside the doorway of – wherever they were. Gerard glanced at Brendon, who was possibly in shock, paused mid-scrub and went to investigate.

In the foreground of a vista made up essentially of ‘ostentatious castle’ and ‘moor’, was Frank, in a heap, apparently unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. A horse was casually eating its way through the vegetable patch of what Gerard could now clearly see was a hovel.

Whilst Gerard had been scraping porridge off his crinoline, Frank had been even less lucky. He had re-materialised on a horse and had promptly panicked, dropped the reins and fallen off. All that might have been embarrassing but manageable, had he not gone head first into a rock.

[ _The spell winced. Too far?_ ]

Gerard yanked up his skirts and picked his way through the vegetable garden, out of his garden and onto what appeared to be some class-A Romantically Desolate Moorland. Kneeling by Frank’s head and wincing a little as the stays of his goddamn dress bit in under his arms, he put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Frank?” No response. “Frankie?!” Gerard shook him, and desperately dabbed at the blood with a clean bit of his skirt. “Frank, wake up!” 

Frank opened his eyes and focussed blearily on Gerard’s face. “Oh, it’s you. I’m glad it’s you. I love you, you know that, right? I love you. Like. Like – butter. Like butter loves bread.”

[ _The spell paused. “No,” Bob said wearily, without looking up from his book._ ]

“Yeah, I know,” Gerard said, hoisting him upright. “Come on, we’ll get you a – herbal remedy... thing. Or something.”

“It’s just that – you’re like the sun to my sunflower. You remind me of sunflowers.”

“What, yellow?”

“Yes! No. You’re cheery.”

“Frank, have you noticed the running ‘death’ theme with our albums at all?”

“Yes. I like how you’re so cheery about it,” he beamed, blood trickling down his face and beginning to stain his starched collar. “I like bacon too. The fake stuff. _Not_ the real stuff, because that’s from animals and it’s – it’s _ethically unsound_.”

“Right, yeah, got it,” Gerard wheezed. “Maybe you want to lay off the fake bacon a bit, though. For the next time I have to haul you back to my hovel.”

“And that’s _bad_ \- you shouldn’t be living in a hovel, Gee!” Frank said expansively, ignoring almost everything that Gerard had been saying. “You should be living in a palace! Like last time!” One of his flailing hands almost hit Gerard in the face and he ducked to avoid another, less intentional black eye. Frank’s eyes started to slip out of focus, and Gerard whacked him ineffectually with his free hand. 

“Oh, hey, no, Frankie, no! Open your eyes! You gotta stay awake, dude!” Gerard rolled his eyes when he noticed Frank ignoring him completely. “Frank, I swear to god, if you wake up, I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life. Apparently, I suck like a Hoover.”

“Wha’? Blowjob? Who’s giving blowjobs?” Frank roused for long enough to register his interest.

“Your mom,” Gerard told him, heaving him towards the shack.

“Oh.” Interest lost, Frank lapsed into unconsciousness.

Brendon had apparently unfrozen, and was sitting on the kitchen table when Gerard hauled Frank through the door.

“Is that – Frank Iero?” he asked, frowning.

“Yup.” Gerard nodded. “He had a bit of an accident involving a horse. Could you grab his legs? He’s kind of heavy.”

“Is he okay?”

“Um...”

“He’s _bleeding_!” 

“Yes, he is. Could you-” Turned out, an unconscious Frank made a surprisingly loud ‘thud’ when he hit the ground.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Never mind,” Gerard wheezed, collapsed under the weight of his rhythm guitarist. “Look, can you ride?”

“No?”

“Good, there’s a horse outside. Head for the castle, OK, and tell them that someone important has taken a fall. Say his name is Frank, Francis at a push and,” he added whimsically, “Franka if there’s still no reaction.”

Brendon gave him a frightened look, and headed for the door. “Well, OK... but – when I get back, can we talk about some stuff?”

“Sure,” Gerard said, grimly ripping strips off his petticoat and shoving a kettle onto the fire for some hot water.

“Like – why I’m wearing a dress?”

“Oh.” For the first time, Gerard noticed that Brendon was clad in a rather bedraggled grey-pink dress. “Sorry, kid. Just. Yeah. We’ll talk. Just go fetch help.” He paused. “If it helps at all,” he added “I was kidnapped whilst wearing a see-through nightdress.”

Brendon’s expression suggested that it really didn’t. He ran.

**

He arrived back an hour later, after Gerard had cleaned the blood from Frank’s head and bandaged him up as well as could be learnt from Grey’s Anatomy. He then sat for the next forty five minute, clutching Frank’s hand and praying that Frank wasn’t going to bleed to death before he could admit his undying love. Or whatever. 

He only paused from his vigil as Brendon entered, bringing with him three burly men, who bowed and honest-to-god tugged their forelocks on catching sight of Gerard.

“Lady Barbara! How can we thank you enough?” The question seemed to be rhetorical, so Gerard just shrugged rather awkwardly, still clasping Frank’s hand. “We knows as you’ve little cause to be kind to ’is Lordship!” These were, Gerard reflected, strangely piratical Scotsmen. 

“Er... you do?” Gerard couldn’t quite bring himself just to drop Frank’s hand, which was reassuringly warm and solid in his, but he placed it carefully on the bed next to him, and stood, shaking out his skirts rather self-consciously.

“Oh, aye. After ’im turnin’ you out of what’s rightfully yer home, milady.”

“Oh, that,” Gerard agreed, winging it. “Terrible. Yeah.”

“So, we’re grateful to yer Ladyship. He’s a good laird, fer all ’e was uncivil to yer Ladyship.”

“Well. No good deed, and all that stuff,” Gerard had no idea what he was saying. He wanted them to get Frank _out_ of here and maybe get him to a doctor at some point. 

As if he’d read his mind, Brendon piped up, “Dude needs a doctor, guys.”

They stared at him for a moment, then outright leered. “O’ course, Miss.” Brendon recoiled and scuttled behind Gerard. “We’ll be taking him up t’ castle now, milady.”

Gerard smoothed his hands down over his skirts nervously. “I’ll come with you,” he said, a little too quickly, rather unwilling to let Frank out of his sight, especially injured and especially wherever they currently were. He countered their shocked looks with a hasty, “I must see my patient well cared for.”

“Y’always was a kindly mistress, milady,” the leader opined slavishly.

“Well, quite,” Gerard agreed, edging away from him and bumping into Brendon. “I trust you have a carriage waiting?”

“ _‘I trust’_?” Brendon hissed at him. “The fuck?”

“I’m getting into character. Shut up,” Gerard hissed back, then smiled sweetly at the men. “A carriage, master?”

“Indeed, milady. We’ll have to walk, but there’s plen’y of room for youse and yer maid.” Since the piratical Scottish servants were really little more than grammatical constructs, Gerard felt justified in not giving a damn that they were going to have to walk back.

Brendon, however, had other worries. “Who’s your maid?” He whispered.

“You,” Gerard told him, his smile never faltering. “Well, thank you, good sirs, for your kind attention to me and your – er - laird.”

“Dude, you’re _good_ at this.”

Gerard continued without acknowledgement. “I will see him safely back to the castle.”

“Aye, they’ll be a-waitin’ for ye back at Castle McClimmock.”

“Right. Excellent. Thank you.”

Brendon leant towards him after the door shut on the carriage, Frank slumped against Gerard. Gerard told himself firmly that the arm he had around Frank’s waist was strictly practical; the carriage ride was bumpy, and he couldn’t let Frank fall off the seat. “I have many questions,” he said carefully, “but first – why does everyone here sound like an extra from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’?”

“Oh man,” Gerard leant back against the cushions. “It’s a really, _really_ long story.”

**

“A romance novel? Really?”

“Second one so far,” Gerard agreed. “And I found the copy of ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’,” Brendon looked revolted, “in my workbasket, so it’s a pretty safe bet. I should warn you, you’re Miss Charlotte McIthen and you’re my maid.”

“Why am I a girl!?”

“I don’t know!” Gerard all but squawked. “If it helps at all-”

“It won’t,” Brendon prophesised gloomily.

“-I was a concubine last time, so think yourself lucky.” Brendon looked mildly interested. “Don’t say a word.”

“So, we’re stuck here forever?”

“No. I don’t think so? I think I might just have to admit wild, passionate burning love. Y’know, like in the books. That’s where they always end. With declarations of love.” Brendon’s expression went from sceptical to terrified. “Not for you! Me! For Frank!”

“Do I have to admit wild, passionate burning love for him as well?” Brendon asked.

Gerard shrugged. “Could always try?”

Brendon considered it. “Nah, I’ll stick it out. It’s not worth the bruises.” There was a long pause. “Well? Go on, then! Go admit your love!”

[ _The spell snorted. It wouldn’t be caught out like that twice._ ]

“I’ll wait till he wakes up,” Gerard said carefully. 

**

Frank woke to Gerard’s face looming over him. “Dude! Uncool!”

“You know who I am, then?”

“Er. Is that a trick question?”

Gerard looked faintly disappointed. “Oh. Well. That’s good. Do you know who _you_ are?”

“If by ‘me’ you mean Frank Iero, guitarist for My Chem, yeah, I do. If you mean the ‘me’ which involves a horse and breeches and wherever I am now-”

“Castle McClimmock,” Gerard supplied helpfully.

“Yeah, that – then no. No idea.”

“Well, you’re a laird.”

“I’m a what? Because that _sounds_ like an STD.”

“It’s a lord, but in Scotland.”

“Huh,” Frank digested this. “Do I have a concussion?”

“Yes. Your Lairdship.”

“And – who are you?”

“I am the Lady Barbara, of course,” Gerard rolled his eyes. “You were a dick and threw me out of the castle after my uncle died, claiming to be the rightful inheritor. The book,” he waved ‘Taming the Wild Laird’ three inches from Frank’s face, “claims that I’m the rightful owner, but I think that’s pretty dubious myself. Anyway, I live in a godawful shack with my maid. Miss Charlotte.”

“Miss Charlotte?”

“Yo,” Brendon said from the corner.

Frank looked a little dazed. “Isn’t that – Brendon Urie? The kid from-”

“Yes.” They said together. 

“Do you get a dress too, Charlotte?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brendon actually sounded proud. “Mine is _pink_. So,” he crossed his arms, “could we get this over with? Because, no offence, but this feels a little like roleplaying, and that’s really not my kink, so.”

“Get it over with?” Frank sounded suspicious.

“Yeah, y’know. The declarations of love and all.”

“Gerard?” Frank pinned him with a look. “Declarations of love?”

Gerard went a little pink. “So, I had a theory, OK? Just roll with it.” He leant forwards. “Frank, I love you,” he said sincerely. “I don’t think I could live without you or love anyone else. I _love_ you.”

Nothing happened.

[ _The spell sniggered to itself. This time, they would just have to sweat it out for a little longer._ ]

Frank raised an eyebrow. “You need a new theory.”

“So it needs a little work!” Gerard said defensively, flushing pink and trying not to feel stupid.

“You think?” Frank said acerbically.

“So, does this mean the role-play continues?” Brendon asked, looking amused.

“Don’t sound so pleased, sunshine, you have to dress me,” Gerard said and turned to Frank. “About that, I need pants. Can I have a pair of yours?”

“Make that two,” Brendon piped up.

Frank shook his head. “Gerard, I love you and I would do anything for you-”

[ _The spell perked up. Bob didn’t even bother with a reply._ ]

“-but my breeches will not fit you. Him,” he nodded at Brendon, “they probably would-”

“No,” Gerard said viciously, “if _I_ have to stay in a dress, _he_ has to stay in a dress.” Brendon accepted this with equanimity. “Misery loves company.”

“Dude, I thought you were kind of – y’know, one with the girl-clothes.”

“Yeah, sure! Sometimes! For fun! For a statement! It’s not something I want to take up permanently!”

“Neither is living in a romance novel,” Brendon said, looking out the window at the theatrically driving rain and shuddering. “Dude, never moving to Scotland.”

“I don’t think this is an accurate portrayal,” Gerard returned over one shoulder, “Frank, pants, now.”

“Gerard,” Frank said earnestly, “they won’t _fit_. They’ll be ridiculously tight and uncomfortable, and God knows I don’t need the temptation. With my wound, you know.”

“Charlotte,” Gerard said icily, standing and shaking out his skirts with jerky, irritated movements, “we’re leaving.”

“What!?” Brendon shook his head. “No! I like it here! It’s warm here! Your hovel is fucking freezing, and we have to go through _that_ ,” a panicked gesture at the window and what had apparently become sleet, “to get there!”

“I won’t stay here a moment longer!” Gerard snapped, voice suspiciously shrill.

“Funny, book-you says the same thing,” Frank said, leafing through ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’ interestedly. “Apparently I insist you stay to show my gratitude to you – though I then offer to warm you ‘with my body’, quite insistently, so I’m still a dick.” He paused. “Barbara is apparently kind of feisty, since she says the only way she would let me warm her ‘with my body’ is if she set fire to me.” Gerard was eyeing the fireplace with rather too much interest for comfort. “Hey, I offered to share my castle!”

“You withheld pants,” Gerard said simply.

“So, we’re still going by the book, right?”

“Might as well,” Gerard shrugged.

Frank flung back the covers. “Hop in!”

In the withering silence which followed, Brendon noted absently from the window, “It’s a little creepy that you guys are all but having sex and the maid is still in the room.”

“You don’t count, you’re staff,” Gerard pointed out.

“Huh. These books are kinky shit,” Brendon said and turned back to his gloomy contemplation of the rain. 

“OK,” Frank said, “I’ll be serious.” He cleared his throat and adopted a wooden tone. “Barbara, I must insist you stay. I owe you my life,” he didn’t exactly sound thrilled, “and I must show you my gratitude for.... the fine dress you’re wearin- what? Oh! Sorry, turned two pages at once. For saving me thusly. Is thusly a word?” When Gerard just shrugged, Frank held the book out. “It’s your line.”

Gerard perched on Frank’s pillow and absent-mindedly carded a hand through Frank’s hair, just above the bandage. Just as absently, Frank leant into the touch. Brendon, keen-eyed, watched from the window. “Thank you kind sir she said bitterly – wait, sorry, my bad. Thank you kind sir, but I must decline. I wouldn’t stay in the vile environs of your castle a moment longer than I had to. Come, Charlotte!”

“Where’re we going?”

“To find some pants.”

**

Unfortunately, in the romance world where all the men – even the piratical one-liners – were tall and built like brick houses, neither of them had had much luck finding decently-fitting men’s clothes. 

“I look like I’ve raided my dad’s wardrobe,” Brendon said, flapping the ends of his sleeves. His breeches were rolled up to the knee to prevent them trailing in puddles. “This is ridiculous.”

Gerard gave him a look, which might have been more effective had his open-necked shirt of manliness not plunged, gaping, nearly to his navel. His jacket, when done up to preserve at least the illusion of modesty, made him look like a scarecrow, and his huge breeches didn’t exactly help the picture. “Would you prefer the dress, Miss Charlotte?”

“You know,” Brendon said, looking down at his ungainly breeches, “I just might-”

“You can if you want,” Gerard said. “I’m going to relish the feeling of _pants_.”

With many stops to roll the stubborn breeches back up, they made their way slowly to Frank’s room. Frank had been left with the book, and greeted them cheerily.

“Someone should get Book Me on sexual harassment charges,” he said, dropping it on the bed. “Barbara’s told me to fuck off about six times and I still keep coming on to her. And then she suddenly decides it’s A-Okay and I ravish her in a stairwell.”

“If I said ‘no’ at first, you should accept my decision,” Gerard told him, plopping himself down gloomily right next to Frank – unnecessarily, Brendon noted interestedly, since Frank’s bed was roughly the same size as a small tennis court.

“But, hey,” he said carefully, “you guys are friends, right? If you’re still going by the book, isn’t the whole ‘ravishing’ thing going to be super awkward?”

“Eh, we’ve done worse,” Frank said.

“With an audience!” Gerard added brightly.

“Um. Super.” Brendon edged towards the door. “Are you gonna do it – um, now? Because, staff or not, I think I’d better go...”

“Nope! We need a stairwell,” Gerard said stoutly. 

“You’re going to go find one deliberately?”

“Yep.” On seeing Brendon’s sceptical look, he said, “look, do you want to get out of here or not?” Brendon nodded fervently. “Well, there you go then.”

**

Almost the moment Frank was given leave to get up, he and Gerard headed for the nearest convenient stairwell. 

“Right, so,” Gerard said, sitting down on the stairs, “how does this go in the book?”

“I pretty much just grab you and shove you up against a wall – I’m classy – and keep saying that you’re mine. I say it a lot, actually. Like six or seven times. Not all at once, ‘cause that would be a bit weird – you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine-”

“Right, gotcha,” Gerard interrupted him quickly. “So, after the shoving and the ‘mining’, what comes next?”

“Kissing. Really ridiculous kissing.”

“What, like ‘bend me over backwards’,” he warded off any potential vagaries with a quelling eyebrow, “‘ and try not to drop me’ kissing?”

“Er, more like ‘the heat of my lips searing your very soul’ kissing.”

There was an awkward silence. “Right, so. Shall we get to the searing?”

“Ladies first,” Frank grinned.

“You haven’t shoved me, yet,” Gerard said primly. Frank put a little too much enthusiasm into his shoving and Gerard’s head hit the wall with a painful thump. “Ow,” Gerard glared at him.

Frank presented him with an innocent face. “Sorry,” he said sweetly.

“Come here, then,” Gerard gave a put-upon sigh and yanked him forwards, flush against him.

“So, you come here often?” Frank grinned, and Gerard promptly cracked up. Frank clung on to him as he laughed, giggling into his collarbone. As it turned out, tension-breaker though it was, laughter was not conducive to kissing. There was another faintly awkward pause before Frank licked his lips and leant forwards to press a dry, ungainly kiss to the corner of Gerard’s mouth.

“If that’s your definition of ‘searing’, I’m going home. Dude, I haven’t been kissed like that since third grade.”

“You got kissed in third grade?”

“I was advanced,” Gerard said stiffly.

“You were also _weird_ ,” Frank pointed out honestly, but with a sad want of tact.

“Hey!”

“What? You’re the one who offered criticism of my kissing technique!” Frank pushed back. “Maybe we should try this again when you’re in a more mature frame of mind.”

“Fine,” Gerard returned sharply. “Get off me, then.”

Awkwardly, Frank pushed himself away from Gerard and, backward glance notwithstanding, stalked off.

**

Brendon glared at him. “So, we’re still here?”

Gerard gave him a Look. “As you see.”

“Well, could you – look, I’m sorry, but could you get a fucking move on, please? Because I’ve spent today bouncing on the bed and trying to ring for room service and I’m _bored_. ‘Miss Charlotte’ apparently does fuck all and is _woefully_ under-employed, and I’m bored, Gee-Way, _bored_.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that like somehow it’ll make a difference. We’re stuck here until whatever it is decides to let us move on!”

“Move on?”

“Yeah, you know, hopefully back to the bus. Or maybe to a different romance novel.”

“ _Another_ romance novel?” Brendon looked a little sick.

Gerard nodded, looking strangely gloomy – for him, at any rate. “Mm, this is the second one so far. I told you, last time I was a concubine. In a desert.”

“And – were you still called Barbara?”

Gerard’s estimation of Brendon went up a couple of notches – clearly, he understood the salient points. “Yes. It was awful. Though, this one time, someone called me the Moon of Serenity.”

“Awesome,” Brendon grinned, but the smile slipped off his face as a new thought hit him. “So, will I have to come too? To the new novel?”

“I don’t know,” Gerard shrugged helplessly.

“But I don’t want to!”

“I don’t think we get a say,” Gerard pointed out. “Look, I’m sorry, OK? I don’t know why _we’re_ here, let alone _you_.”

[ _The spell sighed to itself. Humans were so **slow**._ ]

Brendon paused. “Will I still have to wear a dress?”

**

Frank appeared at dinner – in the largest, draughtiest, most ill-lit Great Hall Gerard had ever imagined – to be a little mollified and willing to negotiate.

He was less impressed by the enormous golden turkey, the delicately prepared lamb shanks and the enormous, steaming side of beef which were laid out on the side-board. 

“Don’t they know these things are _animals_?” He hissed, apparently ready to overlook Gerard’s transgressions in favour of maligning their surroundings. “Where are the fucking _vegetables_?”

Gerard’s eyes fell on a large platter of potatoes in the middle of the sideboard. “There,” he said, and hauled the heavy mahogany chair out from under the table. “Christ, that thing is heavy.”

Frank grinned at him, already sat down at the head of the table. “I’m sorry, should I have pulled it out for you?”

“Clearly,” Gerard rolled his eyes and sat down. “That’s just bad manners. I expect to be treated like a lady.”

“You do know you’re _not actually_ Barbara, right?” Frank said, grinning unrepentantly. “Though, I gotta admit, the dress was _smoking_.”

“Fine, fine,” Gerard sighed, hamming it up. “Don’t give me the respect my delicate sensibilities require. Just don’t expect me to put out tonight.”

Frank choked on a mouthful of water. “Oh, I won’t,” he spluttered. “I wasn’t aware it was an option.”

Gerard grinned at him, but before he could reply, they were interrupted by kindly old man, so frail he looked as though standing might kill him. From his right, Gerard heard Frank whisper, “dude, you’re _way_ past retirement age!” It was something of a struggle to keep a straight face as the man – clearly the butler, and Gerard would think of him as Jeeves from now on – said kindly... something totally incomprehensible.

Perhaps ‘McJeeves’ was more appropriate. 

Thankfully, it had been directed at Frank, who looked utterly cowed. “What?”

“Will ’is lairdship no hae ennae neeps?”

“…what?” Frank asked again, carefully.

“NEEPS!” He said clearly and with the expression of one addressing a slow but promising child. 

“Oh. Um. Sure?” He glanced at Gerard as the old man tottered away, and said _sotto voce_ , “what the fuck is a ‘neep’?”

Gerard shrugged. He had no idea.

‘Neeps’ turned out to be a root vegetable of some kind, boiled out of all recognition, and Frank poked it dismally as it was placed down in front of him. 

“Um, I’ll have some potatoes too, please,” he said, pointing at the bowl of roast potatoes. McJeeves placed two or three on his plate and made to take them back to the sideboard. Frank, foreseeing hours of watching the man die by inches whilst ferrying things to and fro, smiled as sweetly as he could whilst totally confused, and said, “in fact, just – leave the bowl. Er, please.”

McJeeves smiled fondly. “Tatties always was yon best, eh?” Frank considered it safest just to smile and nod. “And fer ye Ladyship?” 

Gerard correctly assumed he was being addressed. “Um, yeah, I’ll go a neep or three,” he nodded complacently, “and, er, hack a bit off Bambi for me, would you, please?” Frank was watching him with wide, betrayed eyes, but Gerard ignored him and offered McJeeves his sweetest smile.

“What was ye Ladyship’s pleasure?” The man looked confused and Gerard was actually worried it might just do for him, so he simply pointed.

“A couple of slices of, um, that, please.”

What felt like hours later, McJeeves arrived back at the table with a slab of venison and some unidentifiable mush on a plate, setting it down before Gerard with a fond, yellow-toothed smile. “Y’always wair a bonnie brithy lassie, even t’were a maidie!” 

“Oh, you bet,” Gerard agreed and gave Frank a gimlet-eyed look when he sniggered a little. 

Frank, whilst they watched the man redundantly hack at the small cow on the sideboard, had been gloomily stabbing potatoes and chewing them. The continual crunching sound was starting to fray Gerard’s nerves, and McJeeves seemed to share his disapproval. “Is yer Lairdship no partaking of yon ven’son, laddie?”

“...no.” Frank looked hunted.

“Well,” he patted Frank on the shoulder, “love’s a fair, fickle thing, lad, but Mrs. McFigle’ll be in doldrums if you cannae be persuaded-”

“I can’t,” Frank said quickly, clinging on to the one part of the sentence he had understood. McJeeves pursed his lips, but thankfully tottered off. Frank stabbed another potato. “What I want to know,” he said, mid-chew, “is where or what is ‘doldrums’?”

“I think it’s near Glasgow,” Gerard lied, sawing futilely at his chunk of meat. 

“So, what are we going to do about the whole making out thing?” Frank asked, taking a forkful of the neep-mash and pulling a face.

“Performance anxiety?” Gerard asked, waggling his eyebrows. He seemed inappropriately cheerful for the situation they had found themselves in, but Frank was pretty sure that this was the manifestation of built-up hysteria.

“Funny,” he said blandly. 

“I think we need to read the book,” Gerard said, finally succeeding in separating a mouthful of venison from the rest of the mountain and chewing energetically.

“Haven’t you got the format of these books memorised?” Frank asked, shoving his plate away and leaning back in his chair. “I know where you keep your stash.”

Gerard went pink in the candlelight, but reacted with as much dignity as he could manage. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes. Like this afternoon.”

Frank sighed. “OK, we’ll read the fucking book. But it’s going to be awful.”

**

“ _The last thing she heard was that raw hungry muttering of her own name_ \- Barbara... not really great in the throes of passion, is it? - _as his head turned, his mouth taking hers. But from that moment, the world and everything else in it faded into the red swirling haze that was all that in her mind. Her eyes closed as his mouth took hers, his kiss crushing her lips apart_ -”

“That’s gonna hurt,” Gerard commented, lying with his head casually in Frank’s lap.

“Shut up and let me read. _Breath mingling_ , urgh, _tongues tangling together. Such was the force of his kiss that she swayed violently and would have fallen if the steely strength of his arms hadn’t come round her, fastening tight and holding her up, clamped hard against the lean power of his body..._ ” 

“I’d have to crouch down for you to hold me up,” Gerard said, craning his head to see the pages of the book. “Are you making this shit up?”

“Oh, I couldn’t. Later on, your skin is supposed to prickle ‘as if under the assault of sensual pins and needles’. Seriously, Gee, how can you read this shit?”

“Gets me out of my head,” Gerard said simply. “So, we have to tangle and mingle and shit, huh?”

“Tomorrow.” Frank shrugged. “You should probably – I don’t know, go find that Brendon kid, make sure they haven’t eaten him.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Gerard said. “He’s gone native.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, he was mumbling some shit about porridge and tartan. I don’t think neeps came in anywhere, but give him time...”

Frank digested this in silence. “Huh. OK. Shall I read on?”

“I think I’d really rather pull out my own fingernails.” Gerard stretched and sat up. “Bed?”

“You should probably go,” Frank gestured at the door. “You know. You’ve probably got a bedroom somewhere.”

Gerard shrugged. “I’m not wandering around this castle at night. I’m staying here.”

“There’s... only one bed.”

“Dude, we’ve shared a van, a bed in some pretty shitty motels, and more bunks than I want to count. And tomorrow, we have tangling and mingling to do, so. This is no time for false modesty.” Without further ado, he kicked off his shoes and wriggled into the enormous bed. “Anyway, this thing is huge. We won’t even have to see each other in the morning if we don’t want to.”

Frank sighed – that hadn’t been the source of his worries. “Whatever,” he shrugged and yanked off his jacket and the really uncomfortable cravat, sliding into bed beside Gerard, blowing out the candle and staring up at the ceiling in the strangely bright firelight.

**

When he woke a few hours later, Gerard was curled into him, snoring lightly into his collarbone. For a couple of moments, he lay there, then grinned and fell back asleep, one arm wrapped around his friend.

**

Next morning, Frank woke far earlier than Gerard and found that short of reading more of the frankly terrible ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’, there was next to nothing to do. He disentangled himself and climbed out of bed, knotting his cravat loosely around his neck for a thin veneer of respectability, before heading downstairs to see if he could get himself some breakfast without having to deal with McJeeves. 

He was politely but firmly ushered out of the kitchen by Mrs. McFigle, apparently the cook, and headed back towards the main part of the house, thankfully edible bread-and-jam in one hand. He almost made it to the stairs before he was intercepted by McJeeves in the hallway.

“Ach, you’re up, the noo!”

“Oh God,” Frank said quietly to himself before turning to his butler. “I’m up the what?”

“And it’s a bricht, bonny day! An’ is yer Lairdship in to callers?”

Frank’s mouth worked soundlessly for a couple of seconds as he tried to think of a suitable reply. Finally he settled on, “yes?”

“Because milady McGool is a-waitin’ for ye in the drawing room, milord.”

“Oh,” Frank said disinterestedly and attempted to mount the stairs before a hand clamped down on his arm and he was tugged, with surprising force for someone who looked like a frail octogenarian, back down towards what he presumed was the drawing room.

In the sun-flooded drawing room, a tall, severe-faced woman waited for him, hair drawn back so tightly as to look painful. “Well then, Francis Brackenthwaite!”

“That’s me, right?” Frank said cautiously.

“I should just say it is,” she snapped in thankfully unaccented English. “Normally, I wouldn’t deign to enter your ill-gotten abode-”

“Er… okay? You don’t have to?” Frank wished he knew what was going on.

“I haven’t come on your account! I just wanted to tell you that I, and all your nearest neighbours, think the way you treat that poor girl is unconscionable!”

“Poor girl?”

“You know _very well_ who, sir!” She ranted on, eyes flashing. 

“Oh! You mean Barbara!”

“That would be Lady McAllister to you, sir, the boots of whom you are not fit to lick!”

“Kinky,” Frank said quietly to himself.

“You mock her pain! Of which _you_ are the cause!” She shook her finger in his face, and though Frank was ashamed to admit it, she was kind of hot – for a raving psycho. “I have heard, sir, that you forced her to stay on your vile hospitality, which must be an exquisite kind of torture for her now that her castle has been wrenched from her grasp, and in doing so intend to _ruin_ her reputation-”

“Lady, I didn’t force anyone to do anything,” Frank snapped back, getting annoyed. The woman was _loud._ “Also, who the fuck are you?!”

“You may mock me, sir, but I will have Lord Stevens here within the hour! He will save that poor sweet girl from you! He’s _twice_ the man you are.”

“Not hard,” Frank said deprecatingly. Her eye twitched a little and she drew herself up.

“If you would be so good as to ring for someone to see me out, I will be back shortly!”

“Sure, sure,” he agreed, tugging hopefully on a bell-cord, “you and Lord Stevie. Can’t wait.”

Brendon appeared at the door, looking far too comfortable in his breeches. “What can I do you for?”

Frank blinked. “Um. The lady wants to be-”

“I wish to leave!” she snapped. Brendon nodded amiably, clearly unsure as to what was stopping her. “If you would be so kind as to show me to my carriage?”

“Oh, sure. One carriage, right this way.”

Frank waited a minute until he could no longer hear their footsteps, then legged it for the bedroom.

**

Gerard was just sitting up in bed, scrubbing one hand over his face, when Frank burst through the door. Grabbing a glass of water, Frank thrust it at him. “Get rid of your morning breath, we have kissing to do.”

“Wha’?” Gerard mumbled at him intelligently, still two-thirds asleep.

“Kissing, Gerard, now!”

“Stairwell,” Gerard responded cleverly.

“That’s where we’re going, as soon as your breath won’t kill me. C’mon, hurry up!” He hopped from foot to foot. “Otherwise the ghoul and Lord Steven will be back before we know it. We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Where’s Brendon?” Gerard said, taking a swig of water.

“He’s probably lurking somewhere talking about neeps,” Frank said, “he’s fine. Come on!” He dragged Gerard, barefoot, towards the nearest stairwell. “This’ll do, come on!” He shoved Gerard, apparently still barely half-sentient, back against the wall, pinning against it and poking him in the side to stop him from falling back asleep. “Hey, Gee, we have making out to do.”

“Mmph,” Gerard agreed sleepily.

Frank considered elucidating further, but decided to cut to the chase rather than waste valuable time. Leaning forwards, he kissed Gerard firmly on the mouth. 

It was absolutely nothing like the romance novel described, but that was kind of par for the course. For one thing, Gerard still wasn’t entirely awake, and had apparently kissed back entirely on instinct rather than out of any genuine desire to reciprocate. For another, there were no fireworks, no crushed lips, no fainting and no seared souls, though Frank’s ego was starting to feel a little singed, especially when Gerard yawned.

“OK, fine, I’ll come back when you’re awake,” Frank said, trying to step back, but Gerard hooked his fingers into Frank’s lapels with a wordless sound of protest. 

“C’mere,” he mumbled, and yanked Frank back against him. The kiss which followed was messy, unrefined, and definitely not the best Frank had ever had – not by a long shot. But it was Gerard, and that helped some. 

“Shall we try that again?” Frank asked carefully, and Gerard nodded. Frank leant forwards and pressed a careful kiss to Gerard’s lips. Gerard hummed happily, lips curving into a smile as his arms looped around Frank’s neck, fingers in his hair. It was Gerard who deepened the kiss, licking at Frank’s lower lip and waiting until Frank responded. One of Frank’s hands cupped Gerard’s face, and Gerard made a warm, sleepy sound of encouragement – and Frank was so, so fucked. Instead of thinking about how screwed over he was, he concentrated firmly on kissing him, licking into Gerard’s mouth, pulling back to graze his teeth over Gerard’s bottom lip. For a few minutes, the world dissolved into a haze of warm, clinging kisses, and all Frank was really aware of were Gerard’s hands in his hair, his mouth against his.

Finally, he pulled back for a moment, out of breath and dizzy, leaning his head against Gerard’s shoulder and panting a little, mouthing _I love you, I love you, I love you_ against his neck in a low murmur.

And then the bottom fell out of the world.

**

[ _It was then that Bob realised the flaw in his carefully-constructed magical plan. The spell had been created to make sure they confessed their love for each other – but he had never mentioned anything about them having to **believe** it. _

_If it had been a smaller working, Bob might have been able to change it. But this was full-on, reality-bending, mind-altering magic, and messing around with it now, whilst Frank and Gerard were still in the middle of it, could only cause trouble. They could be stuck there forever, and Bob certainly did not want that. Hopefully, and Bob was well aware that this hadn’t worked all that well before, they would get the message by themselves._

_There was nothing he could do but wait it out – and hope that the damned thing didn’t grasp onto any other members of other bands. Apparently the Urie kid from Panic! at the Disco had collapsed and was still unconscious four hours later._

_Bob was starting to think he was a little out of his depth._ ]

**

Gerard opened his eyes to find himself in the middle of a street somewhere, a carriage hurtling full-speed towards him. He threw himself out of the way just in time and realised, as tripped onto the kerb, that it was raining. When he went to wipe away the mud the carriage-wheels had sprayed over him in abundant quantities, he realised he was wearing another _fucking_ dress.

“Where did the pants go?!” he asked the street at large, and retreated to a doorway to rifle through his surprisingly large reticule in search of clues. Sure enough, there was ‘Bought for a Bride’, resplendent with its purple cover and vacantly-smiling heroine, who was, according to the back-cover blurb, ‘innocent’, despite the fact that she combined this innocence with a budding career as a high-class hooker.

Gerard allowed himself to be a little confused.

More worrying still was the mention of Barbara’s younger brother, apparently a cheeky, loveable eight year old. If Gerard was saddled with a bratty kid as well, he was going to hurt someone.

Brendon was nowhere in sight, but then, neither was Frank – for all Gerard knew, he’d been catapulted into this story entirely alone. He couldn’t think of a more frightening prospect.

Fear and growing annoyance gave him the courage to snap, “fuck off and die!” at the first person who enquired after the price of ‘a roll in the hay’, and he plumped himself down in a doorway out of the rain and cracked open the book.

Barbara – for ‘Barbara’ was once again his name – had apparently just lost her parents in a tragic carriage accident, and had been left all-but destitute by her wayward father’s gambling debts. Gerard wasn’t entirely sure how she’d been able to afford the house in Belgravia, but then, no one had been checking these books for realism, it seemed. At least the book had been kind enough to give him a fairly exact address. However, that didn’t help him with where he was right now – or with the money for a cab. Standing once more and now-instinctively shaking out his skirts, he glanced around for aid.

There was no one in the street, except a tall, dark-haired man (who was clearly not Frank, Gerard surmised with some chagrin) who, as he came nearer, was shown to be sporting a small moustache. Gerard’s exhaustive knowledge of these books told him that this guy was clearly Bad.

Still, he was the only option. “Excuse me,” he said as politely as he could. “Could you help me out for a moment? I need directions.”

“Certainly, my dear,” the man said, grabbing hold of his hand and placing a slimy kiss upon it with a salacious look. “For a price.”

Gerard paused. “OK, am I Vivien here, or are you?”

“If Vivien is your name, lovely lady-”

“Oh my god, no wonder you have to pay to get laid,” Gerard said to himself. 

“I like a girl with spirit!” He was informed, and, failing to think of a polite reply, Gerard extricated his hand and offered him a wide, insincere smile.

“Directions? Please?”

“Street name for a kiss,” the man bargained, sidling closer. “We’ll – thrash out – the rest of the bargain from there.”

Gerard paused. “Fine by me,” he nodded, and found himself once more shoved against a wall. Apparently, this was standard fare. The kiss which followed was slimy and strangely – handsy. Gerard could feel the guy’s hands unbuttoning the back of his dress, and he shoved him off, hard. “Dude, not in the contract!”

“Oh come, my dear, this is where all the doxies walk. Are you honestly trying to tell me that you’re not-”

“Yes, I am. Or at least,” he added irrelevantly, “I think so? I’m really fucking indecisive about it. Oof!”

Apparently, he thought as he was pushed back onto the wall, _again_ , that hadn’t been the right answer. The man’s hand was squeezing his ass, which was surprisingly fucking painful, and after a minute or so of fighting to get the other wandering hand out of the top of his dress, Gerard lost his temper. With one high-heeled boot, he stamped hard on the guy’s foot, then firmly kneed him in the balls.

“Ha! Weren’t expecting that, now, were you?” He asked, standing triumphantly over the crumpled whimpering figure.

“You’ll pay for that, slut!” The man groaned, and Gerard smiled sweetly down at him.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but not until chapter seven. We’ve got time.”

A thankfully familiar voice cried, “Oh my fucking God, Gee?! Is everything alright?”

“Excuse me,” Gerard said politely, stepping delicately over his fallen assailant and heading towards Frank. “You’re late,” he told him, book clasped in one hand.

“For what?”

“To be my glorious rescuer.” There was the suggestion of ‘duh’ in Gerard’s tone.

“What was I supposed to be rescuing you from?” Frank asked, and Gerard jerked a thumb back at the still-moaning figure behind him.

“That,” he said simply.

Frank craned his head to look round Gerard. “Huh... looks like you did a pretty good job by yourself, actually.”

“It’s because I’m awesome,” Gerard said modestly. They walked along in silence for a moment. “Do you have money on you?” Gerard asked finally. “Because I know where I’m supposed to be living, and we could get, like, a cab or something.”

“Do they even have cabs now?”

“I don’t know, a hackney or whatever. Something like that. I’ll give you the backstory on the way.”

After a couple of nonstarters and one too many attempts to flag down private carriages, they finally bagged themselves a hackney cab, and Gerard gave the address. Settling back and putting his feet up on the bench opposite, he began.

“So, you’re, like, this rake, you know? Sir Francis Montmorency. And you’re reformed, for no decently explained reason since you spend the majority of the book with a hard-on for the beautiful, helpless and strangely insipid Barbara McAllister.”

Frank took this in his stride. “OK. So, what was the beautiful helpless Barbara doing in a back alley at midnight?”

“Turning tricks,” Gerard said, pulling a face. “But she’s a bit crap at it. I don’t think she’s got the hang of it. She keeps going on about her virtue and her honour and shit.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a lost cause for a hooker?” Frank asked, kicking absently at Gerard’s feet on the opposite seat.

Gerard gave him a stern look. “People are forced into prostitution, Frank, it’s not a-”

Frank waved a hand. “Save it, I get it,” he said, not unkindly. “Hooking is a shitty thing for anyone to have to do, of course it is, and if I have to sit through another of your lectures on it, I’mna cry. Point is, Barbara sounds like a nutjob.”

Gerard considered it. “I don’t think common sense is her strong point.” A faintly awkward pause, and he strove to change the subject. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing much. Wandering around, trying to find you. I couldn’t find Brendon either, so if he’s not waiting for you back home, he’s probably back in real life. Lucky little fucker.”

“He’ll be confusing Wentz by talking about neeps and porridge, it’ll be fine,” Gerard said, leaning back. “So, what’s the plan of action?”

“Read the book, I guess. Again. The new one. What’s it called?”

“‘Bought for a Bride’.” Frank grimaced. “Apparently, I give up my life of sin and prostitution in favour of letting you buy me as your bride. No, honestly, you actually _buy_ me.”

“Nice. Um, quick question – if you’re letting me buy you, why do I have to marry you?”

“Dunno. Haven’t got that far yet. I think maybe you want to do something creepy like adopt my brother.” Gerard leafed through ‘Bought for a Bride’. “You’re pretty taken with him, pudding bowl haircut and all.”

Frank looked worried. “I have to adopt _Mikey_!?”

“Timmy, actually. He’s eight. And annoying.”

“And... I like him why?” Frank asked.

“Apparently, you miss your own little brother. Who died. Whilst skating – on the Thames, it says here.”

“Can you even skate on the Thames?”

“I don’t think so,” Gerard said absently, still reading. “Which is probably why he died.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey, Gerard squinting at the book in the half-darkness and occasionally reading choice snippets aloud – “her dress of clinging primrose silk, seriously?” “It’ll never go with your complexion...” – until they arrived back at the McAllisters’ crumbling Belgravia mansion.

“Yeah,” Frank said, looking up at the seven storeys, “I can see you’re real poor.”

“I know. Tragic, isn’t it?” Gerard shoved at the door, which was miraculously unlocked, and stepped into the marble-floored hallway. “Upkeep on this has got to be a bitch. Charlotte? Timmy?”

“Gee!?” Came floating out of a room off the side, and then Mikey appeared in the doorway. Mikey, Gerard was jealous to note, got pants. He also, however, got a ridiculously ruffled shirt and jacket in an attractive shade of puce.

“Mikey!” Gerard flung himself at him. “You’re Timmy! You’re my little brother!”

Mikey accepted the hug with equanimity, patting Gerard on the back and making surprisingly emotive ‘what the fuck’ eyes at Frank over his shoulder. “Er, yeah. Have been for a while, dude.” He disentangled himself. “What the fuck is this place? And why are you in a dress?”

“I’m a hooker,” Gerard informed him pleasantly. “Can I borrow some pants?”

**

As Gerard rifled through countless drawers in Mikey’s – nursery – Frank and Mikey perched on the child-sized bed and thrashed things out. “Basically,” Frank said, “we’re going from romance novel to romance novel, and we don’t know why.”

“What’ve you had so far?”

“So far, I’ve been a concubine, and Frank’s been a dick in a castle,” Gerard said over his shoulder, holding up a pair of navy blue breeches consideringly.

“What?”

“I was a _laird_ ,” Frank said repressively, “and I ate neeps.”

Whilst Mikey digested that, Gerard added, “and hey, that Brendon kid was there!”

Briefly, Mikey considered this. “I guess that’s why they couldn’t wake him up.” he said finally, “Pete’s been climbing the walls.” Mikey glanced up at his older brother, who was giving him a knowing (not to mention faintly disapproving) look. “Patrick rang Bob,” he added, shrugging. “Anyway, it’s all kind of a big deal back in the real world. You two’ve been asleep for like, half a day now.”

“Well,” Gerard considered what comfort he could give in this situation. “Brendon’s probably awake now?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mikey said drily. “So how do we get out of here?”

“I don’t know. We get out of one novel just to fall into the next one!”

“What’s the common factor?” Gerard and Frank presented him with identical looks of confusion. Mikey rolled his eyes. “Just before you leave one plot and arrive in the next, what happens?”

“Last book,” Frank said slowly, pointedly not looking at Gerard, “we were making out...” Mikey looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon sideways. “But with the desert one-”

“You said ‘I love you’,” Gerard said, and Frank flushed dully. “And hang on, didn’t you say that in the Scottish one as well? I heard you!” Frank was staring fixedly at the floor.

“OK!” Mikey said, rather too loudly, mainly to preserve Frank’s dignity. “That’s the common factor, then.”

“We tried that,” Gerard said morosely. “It didn’t work.”

“What do you mean, tried?”

“I said it! Like, the moment we got into the Scottish thing. Or, y’know, the moment Frank woke up from his head wound. How is your head, by the way?” Gerard added, as Mikey looked alarmed.

“Not bad,” Frank gingerly felt the back of his head. “It’ll do. And hey, at least your black eye’s fading.”

“What the fuck kind of romance novels have you been in?!” Mikey demanded, worn down into an emotional response.

“In Gerard’s defence, he was assaulted,” Frank said, “I just fell off my horse.”

“But you did it with dignity!” Gerard said earnestly. 

“Anyway,” Mikey steered them carefully back on course, “how do we get home? We’ve got a show in a couple days and having no frontman or rhythm guitarist could make things awkward.”

Gerard and Frank exchanged helpless looks. “Well, I guess we just follow the book?” Gerard offered.

“Until one of you feels moved to say ‘I love you’?” Mikey asked bitingly. Gerard and Frank went pink and refused to meet each other’s eyes. Mikey threw his hands up in despair. “God, you’re idiots. Fine, if that’s what’s worked before, we’ll go with that. Now can we eat? I’m starving.”

**

Regency life, it turned out, was shockingly dull. There was a devoted housekeeper-come-cook and the apparently-requisite decrepit butler – though this one, thankfully, could be understood – but apart from one very trying cup of tea with a well-meaning elderly lady, the three of them kept pretty much to themselves. 

It wasn’t a happy experience. After the incident with the horse and Gerard’s near-mauling by the moustachioed slimeball meant Frank wasn’t exactly dying to sample the delights of the romance novel by himself, and so stayed in the Belgravia mansion with the others. This would have been fine, had everything not been paralytically awkward between him and Gerard since their conversation with Mikey. Worse, the weather in Romance Novel London was vile; it was fucking cold and it rained for days on end, which meant they were all trapped inside without the least inclination to go out. Rising claustrophobia, frankly uncomfortable clothes and no other company apart from themselves led to fraying tempers, and by the second week, Frank would cheerfully have killed both the Ways and himself.

Eventually, Mikey put his foot down.

“Unless you two go out and _do_ things, we’re going to be stuck here, like, forever. And I really, really do not want that. So, Gerard, put on your prettiest dress and go walk somewhere.” Gerard, who had been happily wandering around in Mikey’s breeches for the past couple of days, scowled. “And you,” Mikey pointed at Frank, “go home! Walk with Gee in the park if you have to,” he muttered something to himself which sounded suspiciously like ‘you lovesick little fucker’, “but then _go home_. Organise a ball or something, Jesus. And maybe the firelight and the fucking waltzing will make you want to propose marriage to Gerard on the spot.”

Frank went scarlet and muttered something indistinct. When it become clear that Mikey had not heard him, he cleared his throat and said, carefully without looking at Gerard, “how do I arrange a ball, then, genius?”

“Go home,” Mikey repeated, “and get one of your scarily devoted staff to do it for you.” He jammed his little sailor hat back on his head. “Guys, I wanna go _home_. If I never have to see another adult-sized sailor suit again, it will be too soon, OK?”

Gerard looked suitably chastened – Frank looked mutinous. “I don’t wanna throw a ball,” he whined. “A ball’s gonna suck.”

“Gerard will do drag for you,” Mikey promised. “And he will do his hair.”

“What?!” Gerard demanded, tuning back into the conversation properly.

Mikey met his eyes dead on. “Primrose silk, wasn’t it?”

Gerard turned betrayed eyes on Frank. “You gave him the book?”

“Dude, I had to. He’s five ten and he’s wearing a sailor suit! I had to give the guy _something_.”

“Fine. I will wear the horrible dress,” he’d seen it that very morning in his wardrobe and it was vile, “but Frank has to do all the hard work.”

Frank cut him an interested look. “Gimme some encouragement here – it’s a lowcut dress, right?”

Gerard quelled him with a look. “Pervert.”

**

Frank’s slavish staff worked scarily fast, and within three days – most of which Frank still managed to spend with the Ways in the crumbling Belgravia mansion and as far away from his own ‘home’ as possible – the wines had been ordered, the post-boys informed of the imminent disruption to traffic, the invitation cards sent out. (Apparently, Frank’s insistence that the Lady Barbara’s young brother be included had raised some eyebrows. Frank couldn’t bring himself to give a damn since Mikey was, in fact, twenty seven and had very little of the child left about him.)

Things were still a little awkward with Frank and Gerard. Having your feelings brutally laid out in Technicolor in front of the one you were trying to make sure never saw them ever was not fun. Joking around, making out, that was all fine – love was something a bit more complicated.

Maybe, Frank thought optimistically, maybe a ball could sort things out. 

**

Mikey had simply ignored Gerard when he claimed there was ‘some freaky dude’ lurking around outside their house – Frank was inclined to take him a little more seriously, in that he just laughed at him (rather awkwardly, as per all of their recent interaction) instead of point-blank ignoring him. It wasn’t that Gerard was _scared_ , precisely, and more that he remembered the events of Chapter Seven of ‘Bought for a Bride’ and was keen to avoid them, if at all possible.

Montmorency’s ball, however – for one did indeed take place – was Chapter Twelve, so he was pretty sure that they’d managed to skip the whole confrontation-and-besmirched-honour thing, and he was willing to put the worries about the potential stalker to one side in favour of worrying about the horrible dress. No matter how much he whined and complained, Mikey stood firm. He had to wear the dress, and he had to put his hair up. Gerard’s only consolation was that however tired he might be of the fucking dresses, Mikey had to be at least as tired of the giant sailor suits, of which little Timmy seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

When they went out to the carriage Frank had had sent round for them – Frank having only gone back to his house under duress – there was no sign of the lurking stalker, so Gerard felt free to enjoy hating his damn dress. And possibly the whole evening.

**

When they arrived outside Frank’s grandiose, ten-storey mausoleum of a house, Gerard gripped Mikey’s hand tightly. 

“Um, Gee?” Mikey said, futilely attempting to try and extricate his hand. “You – I’m a big boy, OK, I can cross roads by myself. I have got road safety down, OK.”

“You’re eight years old!” Gerard said, somewhat shrilly. “People will expect it!”

“Gerard, I’m _twenty seven_. And I can feel your palm sweating, don’t even pretend this is for my benefit,” Mikey said dryly, heaving a sigh and allowing Gerard to tug him across the road. 

“I just hate this dress, OK?” Gerard snapped, and Mikey sighed, trailing behind his brother, arm extended.

“Sure, sure...”

**

“There you are! Come on, we have to dance!” Gerard scowled up at Frank, who stood in front of him, hands on hips. He was perfectly happy to stay where he was – he’d managed to wedge himself into a corner and had been happily passing the hours glowering at everyone who looked like they were having _fun_ at this torture-fest.

He gave Frank a wicked glare and ignored him. “Where’s Mikey?”

“He’s been button-holed by grandmas and they’re feeding him bonbons, it’s fine.” Frank grabbed Gerard’s hand and yanked him up. “Dancing, Gee. We’re dancing.”

Gerard only just managed not to whine that he _didn’t wanna_ and instead grudgingly allowed himself to be towed onto the floor, all too aware of his horrible primrose dress. “Do you even know how to dance?” He demanded.

“No. Do you?”

“No. So _why are we here_?”

“Because the book says we have to,” Frank said pointedly. “And I want out. If I never have to wear pantaloons again, it will be too soon. Now,” he nodded up at the music gallery, then grabbed Gerard by the waist, “dance with me.”

“I’m sure,” Gerard said stiffly, flailing a hand out to find Frank’s, “that that passes for romantic in some parts of the world.”

“Oh, yeah,” Frank agreed distractedly. “So, it’s like a box step, right? _One_ two three, _one_ two three, _one_ two three-”

“ _Four_ ,” Gerard interjected firmly.

“ _One_ \- what?”

“This is in four/four,” Gerard said, “not three/four.” Frank gave him a confused look. “Dude, _it’s not a waltz_.”

Frank rolled his eyes and ignored him. “ _One_ two three, _one_ two three, _one_ two three-”

“Four.” The word carried the merest suggestion of gritted teeth.

“ _One_ two three, _one_ two three-”

“Four.”

Frank stopped them dead. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t care if it’s not in three/four, this is the only dance I vaguely know, so _shut up_ and stop treading on my feet – you’re fucking _heavy_.” The words were said with a hurtful relish and Gerard’s mouth was set. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be treading on your feet if you weren’t so fucking useless at everything!”

“Oh, _I’m_ useless?”

“Yeah, you are-” Gerard began.

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve been a dick for like a week now. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank demanded, stepping back and glaring at him.

“Nothing,” Gerard growled, “I just hate that we’re stuck here.”

“And that’s somehow my fault? If you could stop being a pissy bitch for five minutes-”

“Oh fuck off!”

“You’d realise that we’re _all_ stuck here.”

“That’s not _my fault_ ,” Gerard said, dangerously quiet.

“I wasn’t, like, assigning blame,” Frank said. “I was just saying-”

“It’s not like you’ve been Mr. Cheery for the last few days. Ever since Mikey came up with th-”

“Just shut up and dance,” Frank snapped, shoving Gerard back into motion.

“So that’s what we’re doing,” Gerard muttered as they revolved in ever-decreasing circles.

It was perhaps for the best that the song ended there, and they separated with no little relief. Frank unbent for long enough to ask, under his breath, “why is everyone staring at us?”

Gerard, retaining something of an icy distance, said coolly, “because as far as they’re concerned, we might as well have been humping on the dance floor. No one waltzed back then, dumbass, let alone whatever retarded two-step you were doing.”

“Don’t call me a-!”

“Shut up, both of you, oh my god,” Mikey said, materialising between them. “The entire room’s had enough of this floorshow for one night. Frank – just go over there.”

“Are you seriously sending me to the naughty corner?”

“Just go,” Mikey ordered, and yanked his recalcitrant brother off the floor.

For a minute or two, he and Gerard sat in absolute silence, before Mikey decided to venture the first comment. “OK, Gee-”

“OK _what_!?” Gerard snapped.

“I didn’t say anything-”

“Oh, you didn’t need to, I could feel you judging me from here!”

“Why would you feel like I was judging you, Gerard?” He asked, with no inflection whatsoever.

“Shut up, you’re not ma,” Gerard told him, crossing his arms.

“No, but when you’re acting like a fourteen year old, I _am_ the older brother,” Mikey informed him blandly.

“Oh, what do you know? You’re eight.”

Mikey ignored him. “You and Frank have to get along, otherwise we’re all stuck here.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Gerard said sharply.

“But-”

“I _don’t want to talk about it_.”

Mikey stood. “There’s no point talking to you at all when you’re like this.” He stalked off into the crowd, little hat askew.

“Well I’m not wearing a sailor suit!” Gerard shouted after him, then, beginning to feel ashamed, huddled further into his horrible dress, wincing as the bodice billowed around his non-existent bust.

**

Mikey wound his way through the crowd over to Frank, who was sulking visibly, leaning against the wall and looking out over the room with a face like thunder - resolutely ignoring the girls in pastel who were giggling about his "brooding good looks". They had, after all, dealt with far worse as a band.

"If you're going to say, 'I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner', you can hold it," Frank informed Mikey preemptively. " _He's_ been making stupid Jane Austen jokes like that all week, acting like he’s so fucking clever." He jerked his head in Gerard's direction, face black as thunder, though there was no real venom in his voice.

Mikey kept up the silence he knew Frank found particularly disconcerting for a full minute, settling against the wall next to him and surveying the crowd.

"Jesus, Mikeyway," Frank muttered finally, "fucking say _something_."

"Like what?" Mikey asked reasonably. "You're jumping down my throat, Gerard's being a little bitch about everything, so I'm just getting used to this place, because I don't think we're gonna be leaving it anytime soon."

Frank sighed heavily, a little - a very little - of the anger seeping out of his expression. "He's just being a jerk," he said. "And I don't even know why."

"Really?"

"We don't all have twenty eight years of Gee-speak to help us, Mikes," Frank said.

"I don't need twenty eight years of my brother to know that he's being a bitch because he can't think of any other way to react to this shit," Mikey said calmly. "Twenty minutes'll tell me that about anyone."

"Well, can't you go and work your Little Brother Magic anyway, and get him to act like a functioning human being again? And tell him from me, he’s acting like a dick." 

Mikey raised his eyebrows. "OK, seriously, dude, I’m not being a messenger between you and Gee, we’re not actually in third grade anymore. It's your problem, and you’re grown fucking men, you can sort it out yourselves.” His mouth twitched into a half smile. “Shouldn’t take you that long, right?”

Frank sighed. "You think? Well, you’re gonna have to learn to love that sailor suit, s’all I’m saying."

Mikey didn't answer, because he didn't need to. The silence was enough. Frank cracked.

"Okay, okay. At least tell me something I can do to - I dunno - get back in his good books. Which is," he added, “fucking rich, because I don’t even know how I’m in his _bad_ books.”

Mikey looked thoughtful. "Well, you could always -" he broke off, frowning, as something broke loudly - something fragile and made of china and probably expensive - in the next room. 

"It’s not a party ‘til something gets trashed. God," he muttered to himself, "don't these people even _care_ that shit's being broken?" 

Frank shrugged. "This guy’s a millionaire, dude, he can stand the cost. It's not like Sir Francis Montague-"

"Montmorency."

"Whatever - gives a shit about a broken glass or two. He's too busy trying to get into your brother's pants. Er. Skirts."

"It disturbs me that you're talking about Gee like that, and it disturbs me that you're talking about Montmorency like he's _not you_."

Frank snorted. "Oh yeah. This dude is totally me." A wave took in the elaborately decorated ballroom, the footmen and Frank's own horribly over-elaborate suit.

Mikey shrugged. "You both cheat at cards."

"When have I ever cheated at cards?" Frank asked, affecting a wounded expression.

"You cheat like hell at gin rummy," Mikey reminded him. "Every single time we play."

"You choose the weirdest things to remember, Mikeyway. Anyway, why the _fuck_ do we play gin rummy when there’s perfectly good Magic: The Gathering to be played?" Mikey snorted and Frank grinned, relaxing a little. "Your brother, man -" he began, and then frowned as another crash of breaking china came from the room next door. "Dude, what the hell?"

"Someone's playing frisbee with your crockery, hope you don't mind?" Mikey said absently, still watching the dancers.

Frank frowned. "Fuck, this is one of those things where I don't investigate and then it comes back to bite us in the ass three chapters down the line, isn't it?" he sighed, and straightened up, only to be accosted by a footman before he could so much as step towards the disturbance. "What the fuck is it?" he asked, as the man stood red-faced and nervous in front of him, and seemed perfectly content to do nothing else.

"There is a - a disturbance, sir-" the footman began, and Frank internalised his eye-roll.

"Yeah, I can hear that," he said pointedly.

"There is a gentleman, sir, I don't believe he was invited, and - well - the lady is being assaulted, sir!"  
Mikey watched with interest as Frank turned a truly startling shade of pale. "Frankie?" He asked carefully. "What's up?"

"Chapter seven," Frank said simply, and all but shoved the footman out of the way in his haste to reach the next room.

It was like the weirdest sort of tableau, Frank thought dizzily; Gerard up against the wall, the creepy dude that had been hovering around the house for days (and Frank was really going to pay more attention to his frontman's ramblings from now on) looming over him, his hands around Gerard's neck and Frank in the doorway, staring silently. For a split second, Frank stood frozen, absorbing the picture, before the fact that _Gerard was being throttled_ hit home and he hurled himself at the dude, knocking him off balance. Gerard choked and then coughed in earnest, hands coming up to rub his throat.

"Gee," Frank said urgently. "Gee, are you -" his legs were knocked from underneath him, and he hit the floor, Gerard's attacker above him. 

"Montmorency," he nodded coolly, as though he hadn't tried to strangle Gerard and sent Frank sprawling across the carpet. "I was leaving." The fucker was actually _making for the door_ , and Frank felt a comforting fizz of rage buzz behind his eyes. 

Words were more Gerard's thing - Frank didn't bother coming up with a snappy comeback, he just launched himself at the bastard, catching him round the middle and sending _him_ flying. Then he flung himself on top of the dick, punching him repeatedly in the face, the image of Gerard shoved up against the wall with the fucker's hands around his fucking _throat_ , Christ - it was all too fresh in his memory. And maybe if the guy had been real, he'd have laid off, but he _wasn't_ , he was just a book character, but he'd been trying - he'd tried to - Frank didn't even know what. It was only Gee's hand on his shoulder which got him to lay off.

"Frankie, it's OK," he sounded hoarse, but just about OK, though there was a ring of red rising around his throat. “You can stop, he's had more than enough, I think."

Frank was dimly aware of Mikey in the doorway, and the footman's horrified eyes over Mikey's shoulder, but he was too focussed on Gerard to really care. "Are you OK?" he asked, and Gerard gave a shaken little laugh. 

"Er, I guess? Just about." He shook his head, then seemed to regret it. "But till I saw you in the doorway, Jesus," he broke off, and held out a hand to pull Frank off the bastard, who was glaring blearily at Frank from the floor, bleeding heavily from the mouth and nose. Frank could feel something rising in his throat, something a little like relief, but also horribly like terror, the delayed terror of watching someone try to fucking _murder_ Gerard right in front of him. It had clearly shaken Gee, too, since the hand Frank was holding was cold and a little shaky, and he looked shocky and pale, an angry red ring – in the shape of handprints, _fuck_ \- around his neck. 

"Christ," Frank muttered, and pulled Gerard in for a hug.

"I fucking love you," Gerard muttered into Frank's shoulder, and he clung on as the world melted around them.

**

This time, the spell didn’t even bother to check with Bob first, but Bob felt the shift anyway and held up a determined finger. “Wait!” He said firmly. “Go back! I wanna see.”

The spell showed him. Bob sighed. This was a long process, but they were, slowly, getting there. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Next.” That was when the curtain to his bunk was unceremoniously yanked back by Mikey, who looked both exhausted and pissed. “It wasn’t me?” Bob tried instinctively. He’d met this Mikey before and hadn’t liked it.

“I’m onto you, Bryar,” Mikey said, surprisingly fierce for one who spoke solely in monotone. “Tell me everything.”

**

Something was beeping when the world re-solidified around Frank, and he groaned – he was really starting to hate this shit. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , what do I have to do to get a moment’s _peace_?!” he moaned to himself.

"Mr. Moretti?" said a faintly embarrassed voice and Frank opened his eyes. He was sitting at the head of a huge mahogany table, being stared at by a bunch of people in suits, who were all looking at him as though he'd hung the moon _and_ promised them the Second Coming within a month. 

"Um," he answered brilliantly and looked down at the stack of paper in front of him. If the paper - the invoice - was to be believed, he was Francesco Moretti and apparently the owner of Moretti's Industries Ltd.

Well, fuck.

The man to his right coughed delicately. "So, Mr. Moretti, about our order?" 

Frank blinked at him, faintly panicked

"Your order?"

"Twelve hundred fan ovens and six hundred grills, I think it was," the man prompted him.

"Oh?"

"For our restaurant chain," the dude was looking a little worried. Frank decided to regain the upper hand. He'd always been good at bullshitting.

"Of course. Give me just one minute." Frank looked down at the intercom and jabbed at one of the buttons hopefully.

"Yes, sir?"

Frank cleared his throat. "Er, hi. Yeah. I need someone to help out Mr. ..." frantically, he searched out a name on the invoice "... Gilbertson with this deal. Is there anyone available?"

"Certainly, sir," squawked the intercom. "I'll send one of the new girls in right away."

Frank settled back in his chair and risked what he hoped was an expansive grin at those sat around the sleek, polished table. It felt a bit wobbly, but then, he was still high on adrenaline and wondering where the fuck Gerard was, hoping like hell that he was alright. No one seemed to notice, so he was tentatively counting that as a win.

The door opened, and Frank looked up hopefully - only to see Gerard tottering towards him in a pencil skirt and five-inch stilettos, his face like thunder. If his earlier smile had felt forced, this one more than made up for it.

"Just you say one goddamn word, Frank, and so help me God, I will wear your guts as garters under this fucking skirt," Gerard said threateningly, then turned his most charming smile on the other horrified inhabitants of the boardroom. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. What was the nature of the order you’ve placed with Moretti’s, sir?"

Mr. Gilbertson was giving Gerard a look which quite plainly said he feared for his mental health, but managed to stammer out that he was trying to buy twelve hundred fan ovens and six hundred grills and that Frank's reputation had preceded him and - then he was cut off by Gerard, still smiling serenely but somehow starting to look faintly deranged.

"Of course," he said sweetly. "I'm afraid our standard supplier has been having a little trouble in the recent economic climate, so there are some glitches in the supply chain at the moment. We're terribly sorry to have to fuck you about like this," Frank coughed, "mess you around, that is," Gerard corrected himself smoothly, "but I'm afraid we're going to have to reschedule this meeting until we can work out liability coverage with our new supplier. If you want to talk to Frank's secretary on the way out, she'll reschedule the meeting at a time which will be agreeable to all concerned. Thank you all so much."

Frank and Gerard waited in polite and unbreakable silence as the men around the table packed up their things, exchanged confused looks and filed out one by one. Then, as one, the pair of them collapsed into giggles. 

"I am the _master_ of bullshit!" Gerard declared to the room at large.

"Mistress, you mean," Frank poked his shoulder, sniggering as Gerard glared at him. "Where’d you get all the bullshit about – what was it, fucking _supply chains_ and – and _liability coverage_?"

"It’s called ‘making it the fuck up’. I’m pretty good at it," Gerard said, still grinning. "Speaking of, stay there." he vanished through the door again. Frank hoisted himself up onto the table, swinging his feet. 

"So, where are we?" he asked when Gerard reappeared, holding yet another pastel-coloured book. "'Cause this really doesn't look like the bus."

"Funnily enough, it’s not the bus,” Gerard said heavily. “We're in _Between Bed and Boardroom_ \- don’t say a word," he added warningly, before Frank could open his mouth. "I'm your secretary -"

"Barbara?"

"Duh. You're my fantastically good-looking, ruthless and generally insufferable boss, who breaks every single workplace harassment law there is and basically pressures me into sleeping with you."

"Your ruthlessly efficient, _kitchenware-supplying_ boss?" Frank said sceptically.

Gerard shrugged. "Cut-throat industry."

Frank paused. "Oh, dude, that was _bad_."

"Huh?" Gerard frowned, then it clicked. "Hey, I didn't - I - oh, shut up," he said finally. "Or I'll come after you with your own sharp knives."

"Kinky," Frank said sweetly. "So is Mikey in this one then?"

"No mention of a little brother - or a Mikey character at all, actually." Gerard shrugged. "I think we're on our own in this one." Now that the easy camaraderie of the moment had passed, Frank was aware of a weird tension in the air, which only intensified after Gerard mentioned that they would be on their own. He couldn't quite place the source of the tension - and Gerard couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Right," he said quickly, to get them passed the moment which was getting more awkward by the second. "How do we get out of this one then?"

Gerard was staring fixedly at the over-buxom blonde heroine on the front of 'Between Bed and Boardroom", and refused to look up as he replied. "I think Mikey had a point," he said with forced lightness. "We do have to say 'I love you' to get out. I said it last time, remember?"

Frank did remember – vividly. He could still remember the brief, heady feeling of euphoria on hearing Gerard say it, but then, he could also still see that _bastard_ with his fucking hands around Gerard's throat, which - "are you OK?" he said, and Gerard glanced up reflexively, surprised by the apparent non-sequitur.

"Huh?"

"Your neck," Frank said, gesturing.

Gerard nodded slowly. "Little sore," he admitted, and peeled back his shirt collar to reveal the beginnings of some impressive bruising. Frank's hands clenched, and Gerard, sharp-eyed, noticed immediately. "Hey, there's been enough of that, OK?" he said, a little too sharply, and Frank bristled, but kept his temper.

"OK. So, trite 'I love you's' aside," he missed Gerard's faint wince, "how does the plot go?"

"Essentially?" Gerard fiddled with the buttons on his skirt - what did these books have against women wearing pants? - "Book-Frank turn on some really greasy charm, Barbara pretends to be aloof for, like, maybe six pages, and then falls into your arms. Then...” he flicked quickly through the book, and nodded once to himself. “It’s pretty standard stuff from there on in. Book-Frank messes Barbara around – makes her think he doesn’t love her, all that shit – and she gets pissed and fucks off somewhere, and then Book-Frank realises he really does love her, and tries and win Barbara back. Though," he added contemplatively, “why you – er, he – would _want_ her back is another matter.”

Frank cleared his throat and ignored this vagary. "Right. Okay. So - where do we start?"

“Well,” Gerard leafed back to the first page. “Apparently, I start things off by slapping you, so-”

“I’m sure it won’t matter if we skip some stuff,” Frank said quickly and Gerard appeared to consider it for a long moment before capitulating. 

“S’not like we’ve really gone by the books before,” he agreed. “But first off, I really wanna get out of this skirt. So how about the boss and I play hooky for the day?”

Frank stared for a moment. “Who’s the boss?” Gerard gave him a patient look, and finally the penny dropped. “Oh, _hell_ yeah!” Frank grinned. “Who da man?”

Gerard refused to rise to the bait. “Enjoy it while you can.”

**

It took them a full hour before they actually got back to Barbara’s apartment, mainly because they had to spend three-quarters of an hour going through the papers on her desk to find her address. Once they had that, it was easy enough – Frank apparently had a chauffeur, a man of few words and even less curiosity, who barely glanced at them as they sat, carefully not touching, on the leather seats. Apparently, Book-Frank regularly gave strange girls a lift home.

Gerard’s – Barbara’s – flat was in a neat, uninspiring building, and her flat looked equally as neat and uninspiring – had Gabe Saporta not been sitting on the kitchen table, under a huge, ugly painting of a puppy running through a flower-filled meadow.

“Gabe?” Frank asked, at the same moment as Gerard exclaimed, “You’re my cousin! Jerez!”

Gabe glanced at him. “I’m pretty sure we’re not related and it’s Gabriel, actually. I thought you knew that?” He paused and regrouped. “But if Jerez works for you, baby, it works for me,” he added, the off-note in his voice making the come-on sound more than a little formulaic. “Anyway, so – I figure I’m either really, really high, or asleep. Which is it?”

Gerard pondered it for a second. “If you were dreaming this, would we be able to tell you so?”

Gabe paused for a second, frowning. “Not sure I followed that,” he said eventually. “Is he okay?” The last was addressed to Frank.

“Just peachy,” Frank grumbled, a little put out by Gabe’s sudden appearance.

Another quick pause, then Gabe shrugged. “’Kay. So, I hate to put you out and all, but – can either of you tell me what the fuck is going on?” For a moment, he eyed Gerard’s –Barbara’s – rather tight skirt appreciatively, then glanced up with a grin. “Not, I guess, that it’s all bad.” He almost leered at Gerard, and Frank scowled. 

“Hallo, Gabe,” he cut across icily, pointed in his own belated greeting.

“Iero. Good to see you.” Gabe offered him the same half-smile, half-leer he’d given Gerard.

Gerard, who had been completely comfortable in his skirt up until a few moments ago, shifted uncomfortably. “I’m gonna go change,” he said quickly, and Gabe grinned again. It was the kind of smile which looked as though it could be an example of sexual harassment in its own right, and Frank twitched a little as Gabe sidled over to Gerard and slid an arm round his waist.

“Don’t feel you have to on my account,” he said, over-sweet, and Gerard squeaked a little, jumping away.

“I’m not,” he said, with a passable attempt at dignity. “This skirt is really fucking uncomfortable.” With that, he scuttled out of the sitting room in search of pants.

Frank and Gabe stared at each other for a moment after Gerard had left. “So... I never did get an answer. Where are we, and what the fuck is going on?” Gabe asked finally.

Frank shrugged. “You’d have got an answer quicker if you hadn’t decided to fulfil your innuendo quota for the day,” he pointed out, rather stiffly.

“It’s not innuendo if you just come out and say it,” Gabe pointed out. “C’mon, spill. I just fell out of my bunk into someone else’s kitchen; I’ve had a hard day.”

Frank offered him a rather unwilling smile; Gabe could be an asshole, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a well-meaning one, and it was difficult to stay mad at him for long, even for the cause of jealousy. “You’re in a romance novel,” he said, unbending very slightly rather than pressing the issue, though his voice still held a definite tinge of frost.

Gabe barely reacted. “Oh? My entire life is a romance novel. Which one is this?”

Frank glanced at him sceptically before answering. “Er – ‘Between Bed and Boardroom’?”

To his credit, Gabe remained unfazed. “Oh, the old secretary/boss routine,” he said cheerfully. “Nice, a classic, I like it. Let me guess – you’re a millionaire?” Frank nodded warily. “And Gerard is your smokin’ hot secretary?”

“Er, yeah? You know this plot, huh?”

“Oh, Iero, I have _lived_ this plot,” Gabe said reminiscently, and Frank resisted the urge to ask at which point in Gabe Saporta’s life had he been either a millionaire businessman or a ‘smoking hot’ secretary, because Gabe would probably actually answer. “So, we’re in a romance novel, I get that. But – why? What the hell is actually going on?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“No, it’s a _really_ long story,” Frank said repressively. 

Gabe tilted his head to one side. “Okay, look, it’s pretty obvious that I’m not making that show tonight, so really, I _have time_. The time has come, young grasshopper, to talk of many things.”

“Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax,” said a voice from the doorway to the bedroom, “of cabbages and kings.” Gerard had changed into a pair of sweatpants (none of Barbara’s jeans had fit him – apparently, Barbara had no ass) and an impressively pink T-shirt. Ridiculous though he looked, Frank was trying quite hard not stare. “Everything OK?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said before Frank could respond. He crossed the room in three, giant strides (Frank seethed just a little; short-man syndrome could be a bitch) and poked tentatively at the ever-more obvious bruising around Gerard’s neck, eyes concerned. “But what the hell have you been up to? Have you been playing rough without a safe-word again?”

Frank stepped in. “No. Some fucker tried to strangle him.”

“Now, now,” Gabe grinned. “Self-deprecation gets you nowhere.”

Gerard could see Frank working up a truly vitriolic response and stepped in quickly. “No, really, someone tried to strangle me. I don’t know why you think it’s funny.”

“It’s fine,” Gabe said, eyes flicking back down to Frank’s scabbed knuckles. “Frank clearly took care of him. And you too, I’m guessing.” There was, once more, a wealth of innuendo in his tone and Frank scowled.

Gerard just shook his head at him. “Frank beat the shit out of him and we ended up here,” he said, a note of finality in his voice. Gabe raised an eyebrow.

“Was this out in the real world?” he asked, and Gerard shook his head.

“Nope. This is – Frank told you-”

“I know this is a romance novel,” Gabe interrupted him. “Doesn’t make _sense_ , but I’ve been informed.”

“OK, well,” Gerard shifted a little. “This is, like the fourth we’ve been in. Right?” He glanced at Frank, who shrugged, still a little off-balance after his and Gerard’s fight the book before and everything which had happened since.

“Think so,” he said laconically, watching Gabe’s hand, still resting on the back of Gerard’s neck. He couldn’t work out whether he was more pissed at Gabe, Gerard, or the fucker who’d left the bruises there.

“Well, we started off in the harem,” Gerard said slowly, beginning to tick them off on his fingers, only to be interrupted by Gabe.

“Now that story I have to hear,” he said, and Gerard shot him a quelling look, shrugging Gabe’s hand off his shoulder irritably.

“Then there was the one in Scotland,” he continued. Both of them shuddered a little, and Gabe hid a smirk. “That Brendon Urie kid was there. Then the – last one.” Frank avoided his eyes.

Gabe glanced between the two of them, frowning a little. “Right, so. This is all kinds of fucked up,” he said finally.

“Preaching to the choir, here,” Frank said, eyes still firmly fixed on the sofa rather than meet Gerard’s eyes.

“So how do we get out?” Gabe asked curiously, turning to Gerard as the one most likely to answer.

Gerard flushed and fidgeted a little. “Normally, one of us has to – we have to tell each other- I mean, we need to –”

“Fuck’s sake,” Frank said roughly. “One of us has to say ‘I love you’, OK?”

Gabe paused, then nodded. “That’s alright. I thought you were going to have to have sex, or something.”

Gerard stared at him. “Why would you even _think_ that?”

Gabe ignored him. “Though, I mean, I guess you could, if you wanted. It’s just kinda tacky to tell someone you love them mid-fuck, y’know?” He gave Gerard a lascivious grin. “Does it have to be Iero you say it to? ‘Cos if not, I’m sure we could work something out – you put that skirt back on, I’ll-”

“It has to be me,” Frank said sharply. 

“Touchy,” Gabe said insouciantly, and turned to Gerard. “What d’you think about his manly, take-charge attitude?” 

The spirit of mischief was on Gabe, and Gerard wouldn’t have trusted him further than he could throw him at that moment, but he was all-too aware of how weird things between him and Frank were – and all-too conscious, too, of having told Frank that he loved him, which didn’t help his decision-making all that much. Spurred on by a mix of distant panic and an odd kind of rebelliousness, he shrugged. “That’s kind of a turn on for a girl, don’t you think?” He glanced briefly at Frank, then sharply away again.

Gabe grinned, showing far too many teeth. “Is that advice, then?” Perfectly at ease, he sat on the sofa and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Gerard kept his eyes firmly on Gabe and firmly not on Frank. 

“S’whatever you want it to be,” he said gamely, packing as much innuendo into his voice as he could. It wasn’t as impressive as Gabe, but Gerard was beginning to think Gabe had taken night-classes in it.

“Oh, man,” Gabe said, breaking character for a second and laughing, “man, that was _bad_ , seriously. Is your name whatever I want it to be, too?”

“Are you two done?” Frank asked icily. “We have bigger things to deal with here than your libido, Gabe, thanks.”

“Hell yeah we do,” Gabe said, with an almost absent-minded leer, hand moving to disturbingly near his crotch. 

“If your libido is only six inches long,” Gerard began, and Frank knew, academically, that Gerard had only said it half in the spirit of flirting, at most, and was mostly just pointing out the logical flaw, but right now he was _tired_ and off-balance, and he wanted a goddamn _break_.

“Okay, fine, you know what?” he snapped. “We can talk later, when you’re both acting less like _assholes_. I’ll be in my apartment, I’m sure you can ferret it out somehow when you want to have an actual fucking discussion.” He was aware, vaguely that he was acting like an asshole himself, but he didn’t care. Gerard hadn’t, after all. He paused for one, long moment, staring at Gerard, who still wouldn’t even look at him – then he turned and stalked out. 

Gabe turned to Gerard. “Um. I think that was my fault. I’m sorry?”

Gerard shrugged, determined not to be overly affected by Frank’s tantrum, however much of a point he might have had. After all, they were only going to fall out of this world and into the next, so what was the big deal about this one? He stamped down on any feelings of guilt and managed a quick, rather unconvincing smile. “He’ll get over it. Could you eat? I haven’t eaten in, like, half a book, and I’m starving.”

Gabe pinned Gerard in place with a look, but let it go without saying anything. “That actually made sense to me, shit.” Gerard gave him as sympathetic a look as he could muster. Gabe just shrugged in response. “I guess I could go for a sandwich or something if your character-”

“Barbara,” Gerard informed him fatalistically.

“Er,” Gabe paused. “Yeah. Well, if she has anything vegan, I could eat.”

“You never know, there might be lettuce or something,” Gerard offered.

Gabe shrugged. “Close enough. Let’s do it.”

“Let’s fall in love?”

“Frank would probably eat me,” Gabe said cheerfully, standing and corralling Gerard into the kitchen. “So, you gonna tell me the real story behind those handprints on your neck?”

“Already told you,” Gerard said, poking rather hopelessly around in the fridge in search of something edible. This Barbara, it seemed, wasn’t much of a cook. “I got strangled, then Frankie beat the ever-loving shit out of him – so my honour wasn’t exactly undefended-”

“Mmm,” Gabe said, dry as a bone. “Just your throat, I see.”

“-then I said ‘I love you’, and we ended up here.” Gerard flushed a little, and avoided Gabe’s eyes as he spread margarine on the bread.

Gabe paused. “Your life, Way. Seriously.”

“Trust me,” Gerard said, a little despairingly. “I know.”

**

[ _“It was maddening, OK?” Bob said defensively. “I’ve been trying for_ months _to get them together, and they’re totally clueless!”_

_“I know,” Mikey said very evenly, “that Gee can be a total space cadet sometimes, and Frank’s not always that much better, but did any of your elaborate plans ever involve sitting them down and_ talking _about it?”_

_Bob flushed dully. “Well, no-”_

_“Okay. So, really, you sent my brother and our guitarist – one of our best friends – into a magical world of your own creation which ended up sucking in totally random people – Gabe, now! Gabe_ Saporta _, good_ Christ _\- into it, because you didn’t take the most obvious route available?”_

_Put like that, it sounded bad. “I wasn’t expecting it to be that powerful,” he tried lamely._

_“Bob, if you think that helps matters, you are seriously, seriously deluded,” Mikey said firmly. “You get them out of there. Now.”_

_People underestimated Mikey Way, Bob thought rather hopelessly. Gerard might be a tiny, lopsided force of nature sometimes, but when he put his mind to it Mikey was terrifying. It made admitting the snag in this plan more difficult than Bob had anticipated. Finally, he managed: “I’m not sure that I can.”_

_“I beg your pardon?” Mikey said, icily._

_“I’m not sure that I can,” he repeated, a little more strongly. He was a_ witch _, goddammit, and a damn good one at that. He could weather out this storm._

_One look at Mikey’s face made him a little less certain of that. “You can make it,” Mikey said, after a long and terrifying pause. “You can unmake it. Or so help me god, I will make your life a living misery until you do.”_

_Bob swallowed._ Powerful witch, powerful witch _, he reminded himself, and nodded. “OK, well. I’m going to need to consult with the spell itself-”_

_“Oh, it’s sentient now? That’s just fucking perfect, Bob, really,” Mikey said, voice dripping sarcasm._

_Regain his equilibrium a little, Bob glared at him. “Do you want me to do this or not?”_

_“I’m not giving you a choice,” Mikey informed him with deadly sweetness._

_“Well, if you want me to do it_ quickly _, you can quite the bitching,” Bob returned tartly. “I need peace and quiet for this, OK?”_

_“All right. Fine,” Mikey said, acquiescing with surprising ease. “But this had better work.”_

_“If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else,” Bob promised. “Everything until it’s reversed, OK? But I need quiet.”_

_“Fine,” Mikey stood. “I’ll tell Ray not to disturb you. Make it work, Bob. And don’t think we won’t be having another good long chat about this when you’re done undoing the mess you made.” With that, he left, leaving Bob with a slightly dry mouth and clammy palms._

_He took a couple of moments to centre himself, taking deep breaths. Then he reached in his mind to the place where he could feel the spell humming. “Hey,” he said, by way of greeting, “we need to talk...”_ ]

**  
“So,” Gabe said, finishing his last bite of lettuce sandwich and pushing the plate away. “What happens next?”

“Back to the old routine, I guess,” Gerard answered gloomily. The sun had just started to set, flooding the apartment with orange light. “Coupla ‘I love you’-s here and there and we’re good to go. New book. Maybe, if we’re really lucky, we might even get to go home.”

“How likely is that?”

“Put it this way, I’m not holding my breath. There’s probably got to be, like, a massive thing. An event. Something really symbolic. That’s how it works, right?”

Gabe leaned back in his chair. “I guess.” He looked dubious. “Personally, I’d have thought nearly getting strangled would have been dramatic enough. Though, if this entire thing’s been to do with you and Frank, maybe it’s something you and Frank have to work out.”

“Yeah,” Gerard picked up his remaining lettuce and absently started to shred it.

“You’ll be okay with that?”

“With what?”

“Working things out. It’s probably going to involve a lot of I Love You’s. And kissing. Maybe even moonlit serenades. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess, but,” Gerard looked up, smiling crookedly. “Doesn’t mean anything, right?”

“Yes it does,” Gabe said patiently. “You’re in love with Frank. And if his diva-strop’s anything to go by, he’s pretty crazy about you, too.”

Gerard sighed and waved a hand, scattering fragmented lettuce right and left. “No, he’s not. And I’m not,” he lied valiantly. “He’s just – we’re both tired, okay? We’ve been stuck with each other non-stop for, like three weeks. It’s cabin fever.”

“Oh yeah, “Gabe looked sceptical. “Practically biting my head off for a bit of flirting, that’s just cabin fever. Dude, you regularly spend eight weeks crammed into a bus, three weeks in a Regency mausoleum is _nothing_.”

Gerard shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I blew it.”

“How so?” Gabe asked, rescuing lettuce slivers off the floor, carefully not making eye contact.

“I told him I loved him, and then, instead of staying to talk about that, he just – he stormed off.”

“I happen to know,” Gabe said, in the most measured voice Gerard had ever heard him use, pausing in his lettuce rescue mission, “that you’re a pretty fucking intelligent guy, Way. So I’d really like to know why you’re being so _thick_ about this.” Gerard looked up. “So, Frank said it in the first place, right?” Gerard nodded. “And did you have a long heart-to-heart about that?” He shook his head. “No, you didn’t, exactly. Why would things change because you said it, not him?”

“Because now it means we _both_ \- oh.” Gerard paused – a look of hopeful realisation dawned then died on his face. “But, I mean. We had to say it, to get out of the books. He could just have been saying it, and now he’s mad because – I don’t know, OK. Because I’m in love with him and he thinks this is some kind of – of set up.”

“One hell of a set-up,” Gabe pointed out. “You’re really just grasping at straws now, aren’t you?” Gerard was stubbornly silent. “Gerard, Frank stormed out because he had a jealous fit, not because he’s pissed at you for being in love with him. The pair of you need to pull your heads out of your asses and get your shit together, man.”

“I’m too old for him,” Gerard said obstinately.

“You’re thirty, not a geriatric,” Gabe returned, eyebrow raised.

“But Frank’s only-”

“A whole four years younger than you. A vast difference in age and experience. Clearly that is a doomed May/December relationship right there.” His tone positively dripped sarcasm.

Gerard paused. “I don’t know how to tell him,” he said helplessly.

“Well, at least we’re passed the denial phase,” Gabe remarked to nobody. “You know, direct is probably best, right?”

“But I _did_ just come out and say it!” Gerard protested.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Right after he beat the shit out of the guy who was _strangling_ you. _I_ would probably tell the guy I loved him if he’d just charged in like some – knight in shining fucking armour. He’s got some reason to be wary of a confession like that.”

Gerard poked at the last, rather sorry lettuce leaf on his plate. “I guess...”

“I mean, if that’s what you need to do to get out of these things, too,” Gabe steamrollered on. “He probably thinks you just said it, and didn’t mean it. That’s what you did when he said it, right?”

Gerard shrugged, which Gabe rightly took to mean that it was true, but Gerard didn’t want to admit it. “Yeah, I guess,” he said reluctantly.

“Gerard, I’m gonna say this once and once only, OK? Iero is fucking _crazy_ about you. Pete keeps wondering whether to send you guys joint Christmas cards, for Christ’s sake! You’re like, that couple that no one wants to see split up because you’re the ones who’re gonna be all ‘forever’ and ‘red roses’ and shit like that.”

“Pete’s just jealous it’s not him and Patrick,” Gerard muttered, but his cheeks were pink and he looked pleased. “Fine. But – I don’t know where Frank’s gone off to, so we’re gonna have to wait until he gets back anyway.”

“Fine,” Gabe sat back, looking unforgivably smug. “But don’t think I’ll let you two welch out of it. You’ll never get shit done at the rate you were going about it.”

**

After Frank stormed out, he had no other option but to head back, rather shamefacedly, to the office, to find some idea of where he lived. He spent a good hour trawling through identical filing cabinets, trying to find his address, before he’d given up and asked one of the women who worked in the main office (seriously, did he employ any men at all?). She’d rattled it off without even looking up before enquiring whether Frank would want the chauffeur. Frank had stuttered something that must have been taken for assent, because within ten minutes, he’d been bundled into the plushest limo he’d ever seen and was driving through the city rush-hour traffic with frankly unlikely speed.

His apartment was appropriately massive, grandiose and tasteless, not to mention being the penthouse. Book-him was a fucking show-off. Frank wandered from room to room, watching as the sun disappeared behind the sky scrapers and feeling increasingly gloomy (not to mention mildly creeped that his entire workforce knew his address, and by heart). The ride back to his apartment had given him time to cool off, and he was feeling more of an idiot with each passing moment. 

So Gabe flirted. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. In fact, it was practically his default setting. And given that Gerard had spent the better part of three weeks with the same one person, it wasn’t exactly surprising that he welcomed some attention from someone who wasn’t Frank. And even if Gerard _didn’t_ want Frank in the same way that Frank wanted him, it was far better to have him as a friend than to have everything be awkward and stilted from this time onward. Probably not the best idea to be a dick to everyone else who happened to like him as well.

Frank had a sneaking suspicion that he’d overreacted. 

He didn’t dare turn on his TV – his massive, wall-sized TV – since he had no idea what kind of rubbish he’d end up having to watch, and to top it off, he wasn’t really sure how the damn thing worked. And it looked like book-him wasn’t much of a reader, since the only books on offer in the entire, giant flat were economics textbooks or pulp fiction, neither of which were an appealing option. He hovered awkwardly for maybe fifteen minutes, hoping the phone would ring, then called it a day, heading into his (giant, stainless steel, gleaming) bathroom and had a long, luxurious shower which he enjoyed not one bit.

Then, still miserable but now clean, he clambered into the predictably enormous bed, curled up around a pillow and, despite deciding that he would never manage to fall asleep, five minutes later he was snoring.

**

He woke hours later to the sound of insistent knocking. Stumbling out of bed and disentangling himself from his blanket prison took more work than he’d expected, but he managed to get to the door before whoever it was gave up and went away. He couldn’t quite tamp down the hope that it was Gerard – but when he yanked open the door, he was met by Gabe’s grinning face.

It took an effort of will not to just shut the door.

“I brought your mail up!” Gabe said cheerfully, brushing past him. “Nice place,” he added appreciatively, staring round the apartment.

“I’m so glad you approve,” Frank said, voice gummed with sleep. “Anything else you wanted to say?”

“Shall I make you some coffee?” Gabe said, without answering him, and Frank was too grateful for the offer to press the issue. 

Whilst Gabe fought with the coffee machine, which could probably have run a Starbucks by itself, Frank flopped down on one of his over-compensating sofas, and tried to think of a way to ask after Gerard without sounding like a lovesick fool. It was a surprisingly tough call.

Finally, he screwed his courage to the sticking place, and tried it. “So, did you – I mean, how was your night?”

“I didn’t spend it screwing your boyfriend, if that’s what you mean,” Gabe called back, over the sound of some fairly ominous clunking. It sounded like the coffee machine was winning that battle.

“No, I – no.” Frank just knew he was bright red, and, irritated, he got snappish. “I just wanted to know if Gee was ready to apologise.”

Gabe appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “For your hissy fit?” He asked sceptically. Frank flushed dully, and shrugged.

“Whatever,” he muttered instead, and hugged his knees.

“Hey, man, look,” Gabe said briskly, “I don’t know why – or _how_ \- someone has decided to render your epic love story in glorious, Technicolor, creepy 3D, but since I’m here, and something’s gotta give or we’re gonna be here for _years_ \- Gerard is stupid about you.” Frank stared at him, transfixed, and Gabe paused minutely, then sighed. “ _Literally_ stupid about you. For two clever guys, you’ve both been _really_ fucking stupid about this.”

“It’s a big thing!” Frank said defensively.

“Whatever helps you forget you’re a huge pussy, and lets you sleep at night,” Gabe agreed, grinning when Frank glowered at him.

“Don’t call people pussies,” he said, very much on his dignity. “It’s demeaning and misogynistic.” 

“Uh-huh,” Gabe nodded. “OK then. If you stop _being_ one, I’ll stop calling you one.”

“What is this, grade-school? Anyway, like you’ve never been awkward around someone you liked!” Frank snapped, his dignity crumbling. 

Gabe offered him an accomplished leer. “Never had to be,” he said breezily. 

Frank ignored the leer. “Yeah, well, the rest of us mere mortals have to deal with this stuff.”

“Have coffee with him,” Gabe said. “Work ‘this stuff’ out. It’s better than letting it fester, which clearly hasn’t done either of you any good. Apart from anything, you ended up _here_.”

Frank considered it for a long moment. After all, if nothing else, at some point, he and Gerard were going to have to say ‘I love you’ and- for a second, Frank’s brain reeled. “We had to mean it,” he said, out loud, before realising that that was going to sound pretty odd to Gabe, who hadn’t been aboard his train of thought. “When we said ‘I love you’, before, we had to _mean_ it!” he explained excitedly, and Gabe offered him a tentative, worried smile. 

“Um, that’s good? Don’t you normally mean that when you say it?”

“Well, _I_ do,” Frank said, brutally honest. “But I figured – Gerard only said it when we figured out that we had to, to get out, and I pretty much thought that – I mean, it was just, like, a thing for him.”

“A ‘thing’?” Gabe echoed.

“Yeah, like – a necessity. But he said it before and didn’t mean it, and nothing happened, which means...” he trailed off, and glanced at Gabe, who looked rather smug. “Oh, shut up,” he said lamely. “I’ve had other things on my mind, OK?”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Gabe nodded, but he was smiling. “Fine, then, so you’ll have coffee with him? Talk shit over? And then you can move in here and get your happily ever after, and then, hopefully, we can all go home.”

**  
Gerard, meanwhile, was feeling at a bit of a loose end. He’d already decided not to go to work – partly because following the books had apparently been a waste of time, but mainly to avoid Frank. The conversation of the night before had felt like a revelation, but by the cold light of day – and the halogen lights in Barbara’s kitchen – Gerard was beginning to have doubts. Frank hadn’t displayed the slight bit of interest, even when it had just been them and he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so. 

Maybe the entire situation was just too unlikely. 

Or maybe Frank was confused. Stuck somewhere totally weird for an unspecified length of time, anyone would start to look appealing. _Sarah Palin_ would start to look appealing. 

Not to mention that Gerard himself had been pretty worked up and had said some pretty soppy things, and to _Gabe_ , of all people. Who had, incidentally, gone by the time he’d woken up (attractively sprawled backwards on the cliché leather couch), probably to find Frank and tell him all the stupid things Gerard had said. 

Staying in was practically self-preservation at this point. Or at least serious preservation of dignity.

He’d searched long and hard for something to do; Barbara was supposed to be a painter of sorts, and he’d started to cheer up as he ferreted through cupboards, pulling out canvas and paint. But any momentary cheer had been cruelly nipped in the bud when he’d found Barbara’s collection of works-in-progress; it appeared Barbara’s artistic skill was limited to pastels, cherubic, blond-haired children and the occasional, slightly lopsided puppy.

No, seriously, just how many beagle pictures did one grown woman need?

It had taken him a while to find some colours that weren’t pale and/or sparkled, but eventually some colours other than pink had come to light. Gerard was happily splashing some green onto his canvas (unintentionally adding another spattering of colour to Barbara’s already speckled walls), when he heard the front door slam.

“Gee?”

Of course it was Frank. Gerard manfully resisted the urge to duck behind the counter and hide.

“Um,” he cleared his throat. “I’m here.”

“Oh.” There was a scuffling noise in the hallway and then Frank appeared, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Gerard muttered back, fiddling with his hair and accidentally adding a streak of Cadmium Green. Frank looked tired and wary. He also had the slightly crazed look of someone who’d spent some undiluted time with Gabe Saporta. 

“So,” Frank began awkwardly and then stopped.

“Yeah.” Gerard replied guardedly. If Gabe had somehow found Frank’s whereabouts, gone round and told him the whole embarrassing story, Gerard would have to take the high road and pretend _none of it had happened_. In the interests of preserving his already shredded self-respect.

“I was a dick yesterday,” Frank announced abruptly. “It – it was stupid and I went overboard, and. Yeah. I’m sorry, I guess.”

He sat down on the enormous leather sofa, looking more uncomfortable than he had when he’d arrived. Gerard could sympathise. Apologising sucked. Even more when you knew you were in the wrong. Gerard vaguely recognised that he should say something magnanimous and forgiving and superior, but Frank looked so small and ill-at-ease that instead what came out was,

“You want something to eat?”

Frank glanced up warily. “More lettuce?” 

“I’ve got some pasta? I found it when I was looking for the paint.”

Frank managed a small smile. “Pasta sounds cool. Nice dog, by the way.”

“What? Oh,” Distracted, Gerard turned round and looked at his morning’s work. Surrounded by watercolour beagles, he’d felt oddly pressured into painting a dog himself. At least his was a zombie puppy, with slavering jaws and skeletal wagging tail. “Yeah, I needed something to do. I should probably warn you, I’m not going to work today. Feel free to dock my wages. He’s called George, by the way.”

Frank’s smile grew stronger, and he stood up to inspect the painting. “George the Zombie Puppy? Best pet ever. He never needs a vet, eats burglars _and_ plays fetch with his tail.”

“Hell, yeah,” Gerard dumped the pasta into a saucepan, wincing as a little paint from his hands dropped into the water. Oh well. Non-toxic, right? “And he lasts forever. He’s, like, the most loyal pet you’ll ever have.”

“He’s practically an heirloom,” Frank agreed, grinning properly now. He’d moved to sit on the counter, and was watching Gerard a little furtively out of the corner of his eye, just as Gerard was watching him. It was surreal, and a reminder that whatever had gone down the night before had definitely shaken things up.

Determined not to let things get any more awkward, Gerard searched for a safe topic.

“You seen Gabe around at all? He kind of disappeared last night and I don’t think he should be wandering around by himself.” Belatedly, Gerard remembered Gabe had probably gone to see Frank to talk about Gerard’s pathetic infatuation, and hurriedly added, “He might get challenged to a duel or something.”

Frank had gone pink. “Actually,” he said, staring fixedly at his shoes. “Um. That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Gerard’s heart sank. This is where Frank would say that Gerard was awesome, but Frank only thought of him as a friend, and it wouldn’t change anything, but still, well, no. He busied himself doling out the pasta into separate bowls. “Er, sure. Go ahead.” 

“Okay, well, um.” Frank had lost all trace of his earlier grin and was now reaching prize-winning levels of awkwardness. “I know we haven’t been talking about things lately, and that’s probably ‘cause I was being a dick, or whatever. But, um. Gabe came round this morning, and he said that you – “

“You know what,” Gerard leapt in, feeling the words Good Friend making their way towards the conversation with undeserved confidence, “don’t worry.”

Frank frowned. “About what?”

“All…” Gerard gestured helplessly. “This. It’s fine, don’t worry about it. I know you probably don’t – Well. I’m not going to make things awkward.”

Frank was still frowning. “You’re not?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Oh.” Gerard had expected some sort of reaction, or at least for Frank to look relieved, but he mostly looked confused. And disappointed. Gerard was obviously projecting. “Awesome. Cool. Okay. Thanks, I guess.” 

Gerard tried for a shaky smile. “Okay?”

“Yeah. I get it. Okay.”

Gerard remembered the fast-cooling pasta, and shoved Frank’s bowl into his hands. “I looked for Ragu, but it probably has more calories than Barbara’s delicate constitution can handle.”

Frank scowled at his pasta as though it held the meaning of life.

“I think Barbara has some sort of eating disorder,” Gerard rambled on desperately. “She eats, like, twice in the entire book. She should really see someone for that, that shit’s really dangerous – “

“No,” Frank said unexpectedly and Gerard almost dropped his bowl. 

“What? Anorexia and bulimia are really fucking bad, and those are only the well-known – “

“I know _that_ ,” Frank had the gall to sound impatient. “I mean, no, I don’t get it. What am I having to ignore and why?”

Gerard mentally flipped back to the previous conversation and sighed. “Ok. Um. I guess trying to say it obliquely didn’t work. So. I really fucking love you, okay, and I know you don’t love me, and that’s absolutely fine. I’m not going to, like, force your feelings or whatever. I just don’t want things to be weird between us. ‘Cause that would fuck everything up,” he finished lamely, and prepared for the pity and the Good Friend Speech. 

Frank stared at him for a long, long moment, and Gerard steeled himself. "Gabe told me he cleared this up," Frank said finally. Gerard winced. 

"Um, he seems to have - got it a bit wrong?" he offered. "I don't know, he thinks - well, he clearly got it wrong, so."

"He got what wrong, Gee," Frank said, strangely intense.

Gerard shifted awkwardly. He had never wanted to say anything as little as he wanted to say this. "He thought that maybe you loved me, too," he said, and waited for the inevitable.

"I guess even a broken clock is right twice a day, then," Frank said absently, and Gerard stared. "What?" Frank asked, a little defensively. "I've pretty much loved you since you were only Mikey's messy, smelly older brother, and after everything that's happened on top of that, do you really think there's anything which could make me _stop_?"

Gerard was still gaping a little. "Um. I. OK, wow." Once he let himself feel it - let himself believe, which was almost easy, even after so long tamping down his own feelings for fear of rejection, because Frank could totally be an asshole half the time, but he wouldn't lie to Gerard about this, he just wouldn't - the rush of relief and awe was almost mind-blowing. "That's - that's pretty much the best thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, well," Frank shifted a little awkwardly. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. "You would have heard it a lot sooner if you hadn't been such an idiot and decided to play at being all noble and self-sacrificing, and _not telling me_."

"Hey," Gerard knew he was grinning, and knew he probably looked like an idiot, but two could definitely play at that game. "You could have said something too, you know."

Frank shrugged, but he was still smiling. “I’m shy and retiring, OK.”

Gerard tried to give him a Look, but he suspected he only really managed ‘fond’. “Frank, you have never been shy or retiring.”

“Yeah, well, I was – it’s a pretty big thing, you know? I mean, it’s not something you just _say_. ‘Hey, good morning, I love you, coffee?’” He shrugged again. “I couldn’t think of how to say it. I would totally have said something eventually.”

“Yeah, well. The power of romance novels got there first,” Gerard said, just a little smugly. “Still think they’re useless?”

“Be fair, this is a pretty specific situation we’re in right now,” Frank said reasonably. “Not many people _end up_ in a romance novel.”

Gerard was suddenly aware that he was still holding the colander he’d used to strain the pasta, and shoved it into the sink, grabbing his own bowl and going to sit next to Frank on the sofa. He managed a mouthful before realising he really wasn’t hungry anymore, and setting the bowl down on the coffee table. “So, what now? I mean. I love you, and – wait. I said it.” Ridiculously – redundantly – he looked up at the ceiling, half-expecting some sort of sign. 

“We’ve _both_ said it,” Frank pointed out slowly. “And meant it, and believed it, so – I mean. If it’s not working – what do we do?”

**

[ _The spell half-disentangled itself from its conversation with Bob, and Bob wrestled it back into submission. “This is important, OK,” he said firmly._

_“But Bob, I think they said it! I think it _worked_!”_

_“That doesn’t_ matter _anymore, haven’t you been listening?”_

_“But Bob-”_

_“No. Concentrate. We need to dismantle you, and fast, or Mikey’ll have my hide.”_ ]

**

Gerard shook his head. “Gabe is going to kill us if we can’t get out of here soon.”

“Rubbish. He’s probably off flirting with my secretaries, he’ll be fine for at least another day or so. Just – why isn’t it working? It always has before.”

“I don’t know,” Gerard said helplessly. “Maybe whatever it is – is broken, or something? I don’t know, Frankie.”

“Or maybe it’s distracted,” Frank said, a faintly wicked gleam in his eye. “And we should totally take advantage of that.”

“What did you have in mind?” Gerard asked, reasonably wary, watching Frank put his own pasta down on the coffee table with some trepidation.

“Oh, c’mon, Gee, I’m not a saint. I love you, you love me, whatever this thing is is totally distracted right now, or not bothered, or _whatever_ , and we should totally take this chance to make out.”

“We’re stuck in the world of _’Between Bed and Boardroom’_ , possibly forever, and you want to _make out_?” Gerard asked, his voice going a little squeaky.

Frank just shrugged. “Not much else to do, is there? There’s not even much point worrying that we might be stuck here. If we are, we are, nothing we can do about it, so...” he trailed off.

“How laissez-faire of you,” Gerard began, but he was cut off by Frank launching himself at him.

“Hi,” Frank said, staring down at him, knees either side of Gerard’s legs. He leant down to kiss him before Gerard could reply.

It wasn’t, in all fairness, the best kiss in the world, but Gerard didn’t really care. He made a tiny, embarrassing sound in the back of his throat, and leant up into the kiss, and when Frank pulled back, he was flushed, and looked a little triumphant. His lips, Gerard noticed dazedly, were very red and shiny.

“You taste like pasta,” Gerard said inanely, and instantly wanted to kick himself.

Frank just giggled, high-pitched and stupid, and Gerard’s heart flip-flopped weirdly. Frank sounded ridiculous when he giggled, but Gerard was way too gone to care. “Of course I do,” Frank told him, but Gerard pulled him down for another kiss before he could continue.

**

[ _"But_ why _?" the spell wailed, its voice ringing tinny and indignant in Bob's middle ear. "Bob, they're so nearly there, we can't just -"_

_"Yes we can," Bob said grimly. "Actually, it's less 'we can' and more 'we have to'. I wasn't kidding about Mikey."_

_"But all our work -"_

_"Stop whining. I'll find you something else to do."_ Perhaps a little less exciting, Bob thought to himself. Sorting out the band's collection of odd socks, maybe.

_"Fine," the spell grumbled, and Bob relaxed minutely._ ]

**

However amazing and wonderful and just _brilliant_ it was to be making out with Frank, Gerard was starting to get a crick in his neck and there was something solid and uncomfortable sticking into his back. "Mmph," he tried to sit up, managing a near miss to Frank's nose with his forehead. "Sorry, sorry. I just. There's something hard and it's poking me." There was a momentary silence before Frank sniggered. Gerard rolled his eyes, grinning. "Yeah, yeah. Real mature."

It turned to be the DVD remote, which had somehow got stuck down the side of the couch. Frank pried it free and chucked it dramatically to one side before taking Gerard's face in his hands and kissing him again.

Relatively innocent making out fast-turned soon turned into something less innocent. Kissing of the tongues-duelling-for-dominance variety, Gerard's brain idiotically supplied, plucking a line from one of the books. _Bought for a Bride_? Or was it _Bride of the Sheikh_? Whatever, it was amazing. Gerard was just getting into it, hands tangling in Frank's hair, arching his back to gain a bit more leverage, when Frank choked out a laugh and pulled away.

Gerard glared at him. "Were you going somewhere?"

Frank smiled at him, looking oddly fond (and, Gerard was pleased to note, a little bit dazed. Maybe his moves weren't so rusty after all). "As fun as this is, I'd rather our magical first time wasn't on a dead-animal couch."

"Why?"

"Firstly, it's a couch made of _dead cow_ and secondly..." Frank paused and looked strangely thoughtful. "I don't want to fuck this up. So can we, like, wait? Until we figure out what we're going to do with all of -" he gestured to the room at large, " - this?"

"Okay," Gerard agreed easily, sliding his hands around Frank's waist. "But we can still make out, right...?"

He yelped indignantly as Frank hopped off his lap (planting a knee in his stomach at the same time) and maintained a safe distance.

"I'm saving myself," Frank told him gravely "Ix-nay on the exing-say. Sorry, baby, but these pants are padlocked."

He maintained the prim expression for perhaps five seconds before he dissolved into giggles. Gerard grinned and flailed at him a little. "Fine, fine. Chastity belts, separate beds. Whatever you want."

"Awww, thanks, Gee. I just feel it'd be an insult to Barbara's memory if we -" 

Frank stopped abruptly. 

"You okay?" 

"Can you hear that?" Frank gestured at the ceiling, frowning. 

Gerard sat up. "Hear what?"

"That. Listen." Gerard listened. Right at the edge of his hearing, there was a high pitched hum, slowly increasing in volume. "Hear it?"

"Yeah. What is it?"

"Search me, but I think -" 

The walls fell in.

**

[ _In the end, the spell gave in without too much fuss. It had, as Bob had expected, taken an act of almost Herculean will to get it to see his point of view, but once he had managed that, it was a case of 'not with a bang, but with a whimper'. With only a backwards grumble, the spell began to unravel itself until all that was left was the raw magic. Bob felt a sense almost of regret. It had been a pain in the ass, but it had been a_ good _spell._

_He ran a hand through the loose magic left over and watched as it collapsed in on itself until all that was left was a little ball of magic, no bigger than a ping-pong ball. When he held his hand out to it, he was left with a vague sense of smugness as it reabsorbed into him._ ]

**

When Gerard woke, he had never been so glad to see the too-near ceiling of his bunk in his entire life. Unfortunately, that view was obscured by Ray, who was holding a book over his face, and peering down at him, half-worried, half-curious.

“You’re not gonna drop that on me, are you?” Gerard asked, voice rusty.

Ray leapt back and, startled, let go of the book. “Sorry!” he said quickly, as Gerard shoved the book off his face, and frowned at him.

“I think you broke my nose,” he said, rubbing at it, and Ray winced.

“Sorry?” He tried again, and Gerard was too glad to be awake to hold on to any kind of anger, and waved off his apology.

“So, how long has it been, anyway?” He asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Oh, man, like a day and a half?” Ray pondered it for a second. “Mikey was climbing the walls until _he_ passed out, and then he woke up talking about magic and romance novels and never letting you read another one ever, and then he was talking about punching Bob.” He paused briefly. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t, though, so. No worries there, right?”

Gerard began to ask what Bob had to do with anything, but broke off halfway to scramble awkwardly out of his bunk and all but fall into Frank’s. “Frank? Are you awake? Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Frank said, a little muffled by Gerard, who was mostly straddling him and was clutching Frank’s face in both hands. From the other side of the curtains, Ray was watching them with some interest, and Bob and Mikey were stood in the door to the back lounge, also watching them, though Mikey had his arms folded and looked about as irate as Mikey ever got, and Bob mostly just looked sheepish.

Gerard paused, then clambered off Frank and let him up. “So, um,” he offered the assembled company a rather weak grin. “We’re back?”

“Did you work things out?” Bob asked eagerly, before Mikey quelled him with the merest suggestion of a glance.

“What things did we need to work out?” Gerard asked, looking askance at him.

“I think,” Ray said, “Bob means the way you and Frank have been making really obvious sheep eyes at each other for about two years now. And,” he added, warming to his theme, “that’s not even counting the stealthy sheep eyes you’d been making for years before that.”

Gerard glanced at Bob, who was nodding, then at Frank, who had climbed out of his bunk and was standing next to him. “Oh, um, yeah,” Frank nodded, “we worked that one out.”

“ _Awesome_ ,” Bob said, with oddly heart-felt relief, and tried to duck back into the back-lounge before Mikey latched onto his arm, and yanked him back in. 

“I think Bob has something to say to you,” he said, and despite the phrasing, there was nothing of the nursery school about his tone. 

Bob, however, looked appropriately chastened. “Um, yeah. I’m really sorry, guys,” he said, and wow, ‘chastened’ was really not a good look on him. He was too big a guy to slump like that.

“For what?” Frank asked, and Gerard tried not to notice the way Frank had clasped their hands together behind their backs, trying desperately to look as though he was entirely focused on the conversation rather than how Frank’s hand felt in his.

“Um. So. This could be quite a long story?” Bob said, shuffling awkwardly.

“Well then,” Gerard broke in, disentangling Frank’s hand from his with no little regret. “We’re gonna need coffee.”

**

Twenty minutes and a reassuringly large cup of coffee later, they got some answers. 

“I know it’s sexist and everything,” Frank said, taking an obnoxious slurp of his coffee and keeping his hand firmly on Gerard’s knee, “but I always kind of assumed you’d have to be a girl to be a witch. Wait,” he added, eyes going huge, staring at Bob, “wait, you’re not, are you?”

Bob gave him the most long-suffering look Gerard had ever seen. “No, Frank. I’m a dude, and I’m also a witch.”

“ _My_ witch,” Gerard corrected, with a grin of his own.

“Your _guardian_ ,” Bob corrected him right back. “The large muscular person designated to keep you from harm.”

Gerard ignored this vagary. “So what did you do?” he asked, leaning forward eagerly. “I mean, was it like a – a temporal flux? Or loads and loads of alternate universes which we kept flicking between?”

“Gee-” Frank started, and Gerard nodded instantly.

“No, you’re right – no way I would have been Barbara in all of them. So what was it? Like, a- a wormhole or…?”

“It was _magic_ , Gee,” Bob said repressively.

“Oh, right.” Gerard nodded absently, clearly still thinking it through, laying his hand over Frank’s on his knee. “So, do you, like, get assigned to be someone’s guardian, then?”

“Er. Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Who assigns you?” Gerard asked interestedly.

“Um. The Coven.” 

“Man.” Gerard sounded weirdly contemplative. “This kind of sucks.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Frank asked. “This is _awesome_ , Bob’s a _witch_!”

“Yeah, but – magic exists, and we still don’t have it,” he explained. “It’s like – waiting for your Hogwarts letter and not getting it, despite _knowing_ that Hogwarts is actually an option. And, there’re like, Covens and witches and shit, and I’m the person being protected instead of being all bad-ass and _doing_ the protection.”

Bob cleared his throat. “Um. I might not be your guardian for much longer,” he said awkwardly, glancing at Mikey. “I think Mikey’s planning to send the Coven an official letter of complaint.”

Gerard looked at Mikey in some surprise. Mikey didn’t so much as budge. “He sent you and Frank into a magical coma. And made you live through _romance_ novels.” By the time he finished speaking, Mikey was almost emoting.

Frank shrugged. “But it turned out fine, right?” He squeezed Gerard’s knee just a little.

Gerard was perfectly aware that his smile was more than a little ridiculous, but he at least managed to sound mostly normal when he opened his mouth. “Yeah, it’s fine now.”

“Gee, did you or did you not get strangled?” Mikey asked flatly.

“Well, yes,” Gerard conceded, and Bob flushed a little. “But that was in the-”

“Magical alternate reality Bob created for you!”

“Which, when you think about it, was actually really nice of him!” Mikey gaped at him. “What?” Gerard asked defensively. “No one’s ever created a magical alternate reality for me before. Not even you!” 

Mikey continued to stare at his brother for a long, long moment, then glanced between him and Frank, then looked at their joined hands. Finally, he threw up his hands and sighed. “Fine, but if _anything_ like this happens _ever_ again, I will kick your ass,” he pointed at Bob, “and then _yours_.” With one final threatening point at Gerard, he took himself off into the bunks, presumably to sulk.

Gerard watched him go, torn for a moment between heading after his brother, and demanding that Bob do _magic_ for him. In the end, magic – and Frank – won out.

Bob, however, stymied this plan by standing immediately and avoiding their eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “and I’m really glad it worked. And, um, now, I have to go find Ray and we need to, um. Write. Music. For this band. Yeah.”

With that stilted statement, he all but sprinted for the back lounge.

For a long moment, Frank and Gerard stared at each other. “So,” Frank began, at the exact same time as Gerard opened with a faintly awkward, “Well.”

They grinned at one another sheepishly. 

“Y’know,” Gerard said contemplatively, “this was a lot easier when I was in a dress.”

Frank opened his mouth and then grinned. “Please, don’t let me stop you putting one on.”

Gerard paused for a moment, momentarily thrown. “Really? Is the dress-”

“No,” Frank said quickly. Gerard looked set to start in on some big speech about equality and transvestitism and acceptance of other people, and Frank jumped in before he got started. “Gee, really. It’s not because I’m not – accepting of other people or – or, anything. If you _wanna_ wear a dress or a skirt or heels or whatever, that’s just fine by me. I really, really don’t care what you wear.”

“I don’t wanna wear a dress,” Gerard said contemplatively, and Frank could actually see him gearing himself up to feel bad about that

“Then that’s that sorted, then!” he said brightly. “Can we make out now?”

Gerard stared at him for a minute, and they sat in silence for a few moments, just staring at each other. Finally, Gerard broke the silence. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation, or something?” Frank launched himself at him, knocking him backwards onto the couch. “Ow!” Gerard complained, but he was grinning.

“Christ, you baby,” Frank said, but cupped the back of his head tenderly to draw him into a kiss. 

**

By anyone’s standards, it was a great show, and Frank was fucking ecstatic. The house was packed, the kids were loud and Gerard fucking _owned_ them, had them hanging on his every word as he screamed down into the crowd. Frank felt _alive_ , the music sizzling up through his guitar and into his veins, and he threw himself around the stage, hurling himself down in front of Bob’s riser, getting up in Ray’s space, flinging himself at Mikey. _This_ , this was what he’d been fucking born to do. Gerard stalked him around the stage, occasionally dragging him in for a kiss, or looping an arm around his neck. Right then, though, as they waited for the cue, he was standing at the front of the stage, one leg propped on an amp, yelling out at the crowd, who yelled just as loudly back. 

"Love is - love is pretty much the best thing ever, right, guys? Nothing can beat it. So wherever, however, you find it, with whichever lucky person you find it, you should grab onto that shit and hold on tight. Keep hold of it _no matter what_. ‘Cause no matter how shit everything is –no matter how much you have to face for everything to come right again, it will always, _always_ be worth it." He glanced across at Frank and grinned suddenly, wide and almost manic but breathtakingly happy. “It is so, so worth it.” 

Frank knew what he was about to do almost before Gerard did, and when Gerard pulled him in for a kiss, it came as no surprise whatsoever. He went with it, listening to the screams of the crowd, and grinned into the kiss.

It was no romance novel, but it suited them just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> The gorgeous artwork by [soundslikej](http://soundslikej.livejournal.com) can be found [here](http://xari-xryso-fic.livejournal.com/6091.html#cutid1)...
> 
> And the beautiful mix by [crowgirl13](http://crowgirl13.livejournal.com) can be found [here](http://xari-xryso-fic.livejournal.com/6091.html#cutid1).
> 
> We're so grateful to both of them for this, they give so much colour to the fic. Go and have a look, if you have a moment! It is so, so worth it.


End file.
